15 th june.

15/06/2007

09:56
Up at 8.30, weather is atrocious, throwing it down with rain.
I sat until nine, went in car to chemist, newsagents and butchers, home to dealers and am now sat in damp clothes, fire on trying to get ready for a relaxing day.

Today would be a good day to tidy up or indeed to do some artwork but as usual, I’m not in the mood.

I skin up and spark.

Losing scratch card will suffice for roaches.

I usually take things steady with first joint of day, but today I throw caution to the wind and rain and generously load it with gear.
The familiar scent fills the room and the body begins to unwind.

Packaging up our troubles


Jun 12 2007

by Alan Sims, Evening Gazette


ISSUES of refuse collection; waste disposal and recycling are ongoing concerns.
In England we create around 100 million tonnes of rubbish a year.
Environment Secretary David Miliband recently announced incentives and penalties around recycling, and a voluntary code on packaging for the private sector.
We need much more national action: Government intervening more with retail chains on packaging - their national policies are implemented at our local stores. Can we have less packaging, or facilities in stores to hand back in? What about the 350 million items a year of junk mail we all receive?

There are some stores I know of which have onsite compressing facilities and they nearly package up different grades of cardboard, also bagging their plastic ready for either a willing recycling firm or the waste disposal firm to collect.

Shops already paying high prices for their unwanted waste products are not going to be too keen to increase their expenditure by accepting customers discarded packaging.

Does every item we buy have to shrink, vacuumed packed in extraordinarily difficult to open layers of plastic?

If we continue to request that items are packed with several inches of polystyrene either side,
Then I say bring back the beanbag, at least we will have a cheap source of recycled flame retardant filling.
I don’t mean the shapeless sack of bits; we assume beanbags to be.
I mean the sculptured beanbag furniture, which is available nowadays.

Do we have to have a receipt for every fucking purchase, save a packet of baccy and a packet of skins?
Infuriating pieces of paper which somehow fold themselves into unrecognizable shapes and reside deep in the recesses of our pockets,
To be found months later, unravelled and several moments pass, as the finder tries to figure out if it is important enough to keep.
Fuck me it has lying undisturbed in your pocket for weeks, perhaps months.
How important can it be?

Brown paper bags, now that’s what I call sensible packaging.
Brown paper shopping bags as alternative to any form of plastic carrier bag.

Immediate outlawing of any further use and therefore manufacture of,
Plastic carrier bags.

They must be the most well travelled articles ever to grace the surface of this planet!

You pull the car over to the side of the country lane, miles from anywhere,
You wind down the window to take in the view, the perfect picture of rural idealism,
And there in the middle of all this, stood proudly centre stage in the field.
Is a cow with a fucking plastic carrier bag stuck to its arse!

Everywhere you go on this planet, there is the common problem of plastic carrier bags.
We cart our desired goods home in them then neatly tie the handles together before we deposit them, full of our refuse.
Bit like the young bird offering its egg sack to its parent for collection to keep the nest clean and tidy.

I was on holiday in Ireland a couple of years ago; apparently, they have a carrier bag tax.
I had toured around, fished, and generally poked my nose into as many nooks and crannies of Irish life that I could.
I stopped one day to admire a view, got out for a better look, and was hit with the impact of an obnoxious smell.
Which I found was coming from the thousands of carrier bags of rubbish, which had been dumped over the edge of the road into what I presumed, was a natural beginning of the valley.

Then of course we have the two different types of plastic carrier bag.
We have the one from the store, which is increasingly to be bought.
Plastered with advertising, relying on you to display same.
Then we have the much cheaper to produce almost durex like in composition.

I had decided very early on this morning that today would in fact be a wipe-out.
My planned five-mile jog would have to be postponed yet again.
I therefore began to make plans for the waking hours,
(As distinct from daylight hours, huge difference).

I decided to treat myself while purchasing tobacco.
I had a strange thought while waiting to be served,
What if the dealer hasn’t any?
Its fucking pissing down and I don’t want to be here again.
I looked at the cheap whisky, the half decent whisky, quickly scanned the dozen or so bottles he actually dares to put on the shelves.
I decided,
Eight, cans of lager.

Just spent that long doing battle with grammar check that I nearly lost the will to live!
Nearly lost the thread and embarked upon one of many wanderings.

But I stick to the path and continue relating to you my activities in the local paki shop,
Now I know I shouldn’t consider the use of that word,
Forgive me,
But that is what the young and the old of the village refer it to.

When he saw me, approach the counter with the aforementioned cans,
He first rubbed his hands in glee, beaming with the pleasure of selling more ale.
He disguised his actions by asking me, if I thought it was cold today?

I placed the cans on the counter and he made a movement equal to the choreographed sweep of the bullfighter, his hands disappeared for a brief second and re emerged clutching an almost diaphanous, hope that is right word,
Plastic carrier bag.

This thing was so light I cannot remember if he passed it to me or it simply floated towards me.
I looked at the bag after the sheer lack of weight had registered when I first held it.
“You gotta be fucking joking!” I thought.

I picked up the first square of cans; each can connected via a plastic loop to its adjacent look alike.
Weight of cans too much for loops, cans fall in each of the four directions, save the one left in my hand.

I painfully stoop and pick one can off the floor which had had an exceptionally hazardous descent having collided with at least two obstacles on the way down.
It was dented,
o.k. you say, so what?
I know the body of the cans struggles sometimes to contain the liquid and if they get any thinner, you will have babies crushing them on their foreheads as party pieces.

I now have all the cans back on the counter and have tended my money.
I then realise the plastic carrier bag I’ve been given is indeed locked.
The top seems to be sealed and I know that no amounts of finger dexterity on my part will succeed in getting the top to separate.

He takes pity on me and takes the bag from me,
Next motion he is gingerly lowering a full square of four into the bag.
The bottom of the bag elongates several inches and all recognition of shape has disappeared, a resemblance of a balloon filled with water takes over.

He then cleverly places the bag on the counter and deposits the remaining cans.
Leaving me the job of testing the bags lifting capabilities when I take my purchases.

Good job I’m in the car, I think.
And they are equally shit for bagging your refuse.
I think I hate the flimsy ones less and less, as more and more shops seem to be using them.

I appreciate the dog walkers need to be kept supplied with shit bags, especially for the owner who wants to get just that little bit more close to their pets,
Excrement.

Does anyone seriously believe that entering a shop and leaving with twelve fully loaded carrier bags of produce, six in each hand, handles quickly getting narrower and narrower, cutting into your very flesh.
To repeat this process on an almost daily basis!
Not fucking natural.
Mankind did not raise himself upright above the apes to stoop under the weight,
Of fucking plastic carrier bags.
My personal evolutionary development has taken the next step and completed the cycle by reverting to the almost ape like lifestyle of long periods of inactivity interspersed with random scratching of the genitals.
Or maybe I’m also getting bored with the zoo.

I put David Attenborough back in the suitcase and return to another method of carriage.
The plastic carrier bag.

Making matters worse is the limitless supply of junk mail available to fill our carrier bags with.

Neat little piece of angling, do you not agree?
Or have I lost you?

Yes it is written thus not to make you comfortable whilst reading,
Rather to hassle your brain to put together any threads or reason,
Which may or not exist in this document?
Of course, the management would like to point out that; all the content is pure fiction, in as much as it does not portray a typical lifestyle, as enjoyed by the majority.
I want the reader to experience both the apparent well-organized rant as distinct from the open head, free flow that may appear from time to time.
You would have to have your head in a carrier bag not to notice.
And some people do put their heads in carrier bags,
Usually full of glue, mind you,
Then these used bags become the litter of our streets, something to be cleaned up in the early hours of the morning, so as not to show signs of the inherent problem to the majority of law abiding, plastic bag community.

Animals put their heads and mouths in bags, some eat them,
Some have come to use them as playthings in the oceans of our world.

Millions and millions each second of the day are being used.
Where the fuck are they all going to go?

How many of these fuckers are we ever going to need?

I bet someone once had that problem to analyze back in the early days,
I bet even his wildest predictions could never have come near to forecasting possible future trends.

You look at the people in any centre and there they all are, each with this often-white mass hanging from each arm.

More plastic carrier bags to wrap the shitty disposable nappies in, before consigning both to the landfill.
I quote recent report from that popular tourist attraction,
Mount Everest.
“Covered in plastic carrier bags!”

They are biodegradable they say,
Well so it my shit but I wouldn’t like to keep it company while it turned!

The homeless people keep their possessions in a collection of plastic carrier bags,
No doubt taking care to replace each one at regular intervals to minimize the risk of possessions taking up new residence on the pavement.
That’s what you feel like when carrying eight cans in a bag in which you have little faith.
I am not a religious person, but to believe that a bag of that manufacture would safely get your produce any great distance,
Takes faith.
I’m usually quite relived, as I was this morning to reaching the car, breathing a sigh of relief as I tossed bag and contents onto passenger seat.
Hoping as I did, I wouldn’t cause further damage to the can, which had suffered a dented top, no doubt, one of the rarer areas prone to denting and damage.

The problem of seemingly excessive packaging must, or at least should have been tackled at source, with the manufacturers themselves.
But because of the sheer diversity of the items packed and the different techniques used for each there can never be anything in the form of a code of practice so we are fucked.

We have spawned a whole industry geared up to wrap up almost anything that we care to name.
Shit, you can have your skyscraper or mountainside, even cliff covered.
I remembered when plastic first come into my life as a guitar plectrum,
Then followed a “picnic every day”, experience as we ate off plastic plates and drank from rough plastic cups, for a while, anyway.
We bought a garish to the point of almost being rude, bright orange plastic suite.
Talk about being? You now the orange thing,
Tango’ed.
Fuck me it was bright, everything in the house, period pieces and this monstrosity perched in the middle.
The vinyl L.P. prompted the death of many valuable 78’s, and a public was born,
Hungry for the mass-produced media that was to become their staple diet from then on.
Of course we had the white plastic, Smiths, 24 hour clock on the mantelpiece.
24 fucking hour?
What’s that all about?
It’s a fucking clock and that’s what they do, or are expected to do.
This clock is streamlined, clean, sharp, everything you would expect of a modern material such as plastic.
I’m still bringing in the shopping using a three or four week old paper carrier bag.
I have vague recollections of string biting into hands when bag was a little too heavy perhaps.
That was fuck all to having to cart as in carry a five-gallon can of paraffin from the shop on a regular basis to keep our latest acquisition fuelled.

An Aladdin paraffin heater.
Model of elegance, a picture of polished chrome with towers to accommodate two separate glass fuel bottles, which had an uncanny habit of spurting when inverted prior to insertion.
A huge round filament in the middle threw out a lovely, magnified by reflective backing, welcoming glow on many a dark winter’s return from school.
I could stand above it, arse steaming and be warmed through in minutes.
Almost worth the effort of carrying fuel from the shops.
I say shops, as I would do today,
I of course meant to say shop,
Because there was only one shop which supplied paraffin.
The same shop was also a general dealer, meat supplier, greengrocer, tobacconist, and if you would care to walk this way, just next door he traded as a carpet and furniture supplier.

Now bear in mind I’ve travelled back some 42 years, I, as a mere eight year old had the sense to realise bright orange sofa may have been a mistake.
We had just recently knocked down the wall separating the once front room from the then back room to form the now lounge.
Hence the paraffin heater to back up the ever-blazing coal fire to keep the extra space warm.
We had the room and father, still on his thirst for more plastic went and bought a pair of matching, rather futuristic black vinyl swivel and rock chairs.
I loved them and spent hours spinning myself into the next world,
I think not,
They were to be treated with respect,
“They are not a fucking toy”, he informed me, one day,
Soon after their acquisition actually.
Very soon.

I add that my father would never swear and is one of only few people I have ever met who will resist the temptation to swear whatever the circumstances.
Would never dream of using it to enhance a sentence structure, never.
He was pushed to the edge however when one day I punched him awake from a slumber after a particularly long week of shift work.
He had hit out with his leg, involuntary, I’m sure as I tried to squeeze myself onto the sofa near his feet.
He managed to land the kick, hell I know not where, kidneys maybe, but I lost it.
And retaliated by punching him, he retaliated and defended himself, we rolled and the full end of the beloved plastic sofa fell off.
Shit was he pissed that day!

And so the newest additions of the plastic family were treated with respect and saved for visitors pleasure only,
First fucking thing they would do would be to rock and swivel to the max.

We obviously needed a new sofa and we opted for?
Wait for it,
A metal framed “studio couch”,
My old man was always either at work, in bed or on the sofa,
Consequently, it soon lost its shape and comfort, despite putting extra layers of thick foam under the thin topping.
With the demise of the three piece the question was asked would the black plastic chairs now come into use.
Not for long, very soon one was consigned to the spare room and replaced with a sensible alternative,
The other lived for years in the corner, seldom used.
It suffered a minor cut after coming into contact with a sharp piece of stone on the nearby sandstone wall, which was becoming a popular feature in the houses of the time.
So much so in fact that we have over the years lost all the sandstone from our garden wall, a length of maybe 100 foot over the years.
I digress,

The wound was treated with a piece of black, naturally, electrician’s tape.

The chair continued to sit in the corner for more years, proudly displaying the dressing on its wounds, until.
One day I visit my parents and there was what I call an orthopaedic chair, a recliner, and a plush sofa.
“Where have you hidden the black chair?” I jestingly ask.
“Threw it out, had to chop it up first.”
“Why, what was wrong with it?” I stammered.
“Well it did have the old tape on it”, he said.
“I loved that old chair, loved that old bit of tape”.
I told him, I spoke from the heart.
“It was only an old chair”, he said.
“Only an old chair”, I repeated., sobbing,
(i sensed my time was near!)
“I loved it and there are people out there on the internet would give their eye teeth for one”. I added. A lot of money, there’s Americans who insist on having the genuine article to furnish their retro rooms.

He went silent, expression never changing.
“Does that mean you want the other one?” he asked.
( The fish was stalking the bait!).
“Too fucking true”, I replied.
Gotcha, landed.

And that is why if you have a look at my office photos at the end of the blog.
(I’m much too relaxed to insert a link so you will have to work for it.)
I repeat the chair shown in the photograph is the very one, it is genuine and is knocking on in age.

I treat it with respect still, after an initial period of abandonment involving the generous use of W.D.40 and wild random movements with aim to pinpoint specific location of any one of a range of noises particular to a specific position of the chair.
Took some oiling after never even been sat on in over three decades, kept in a darkened unused room at constant temperature.
Eventually all too soon the fun times were over as squeak after squeak was detected and eliminated.
Life was injected into the springs and it was again what it should be, a lovely designed piece of furniture, which never seems to be able to be taken seriously.
I have it on light duties; my keyboard is allowed to lodge on it.

Anyone interested in the chair and no, I have no intention of using any of the online auction services, can simply connect and tell me their offer.
W.H.Y.

As well as the price of purchase, I feel I must add the following clause.
The purchaser will supply a suitable alternative.
Which may or may not comply with the present décor,
All redecorating and building costs encountered so assure compliance.
Will be met by the purchaser.
Any hotel bills will be honoured for duration of any remedial work, which may or may not be required.

I look at the chair half lit and half in shadow,
Different shades of black make its outline known as it hides its dark secret.
It could kill me!
Yes, it is more than capable,
As anyone who has witnessed the sacrificial burning of a reliant robin will know.
That chair, given the chance, or indeed opportunity.
Could cause my system to close down by admitting such a vast array of obnoxious gasses as to render me unconscious and therefore incapable of stopping a further lethal dose through inhalation to follow.

To realise the potential of the danger and taking into account ones habits of getting stoned, may not seem the perfect pairing.
I am interrupted by a message on the phone from a firm called free calls,
About?
You guessed it,
Free calls,
Fuck off.
Why does it cost me so much for my line rental when I hardly ever use the phone?
Can I really justify paying so much for so being such a small fish in a huge pond of users?
Back to the slippery thread, who gave her the right to choose me to pester?
Same people who target us daily with junk mail.
You remember, the stuff we fill the carrier bags with before binning.
I do not eat out, never order in, and have no need for any product to do with broadband, TV or phone, I care nothing for supermarket advertising, off license special offers or indeed filling a sack with old mobile phones for the local air ambulance,
Surely, they can afford decent communications.

I would also like to include in the list of junk products is the insistence in giving each household a free fucking newspaper.
I do not buy a daily, evening, or weekend paper so, why the fuck do I need this junk?
Same fucking layout each week, page and half of old local news and adverts from local businesses.
I feel for some of the advertisers, obviously paying for he privilege of having their trade increased through the magic of advertising locally to a targeted section of the community, read, every fucker.
I know of some, funnily enough, dog lovers again, and pet owners in general, free newspaper becomes bedding for chosen companion.
No I don’t mean dog owners in particular use old newspapers I meant I knew someone, who happened to be a dog lover who used old collected newspapers as bedding for her house full of ferrets.
To date that seems the most useful suggestion for their worth.

I used to wonder why I got junk mail, and made sure I didn’t give too many details out over the web.
But now everyone, without exception is treated to a daily collection of fliers and junk in their letterboxes.

I think therefore I am.
I exist therefore I am junk mail victim.

Actually very rarely upsets me I just like millions of others leave it in a pile near the front door and collect it when I pass to put the rubbish out.
Lost a few pieces of correspondence deemed important by inefficient sorting of junk from acceptable mail.

I have one piece of mail, which arrives weekly, and anything other than the familiar brown envelope is viewed with suspicion.
I have also got into the habit of automatically checking the name on the front after nearly having a heart attack after opening a bank statement and seeing the figure £1.00 staring back at me.
I get regular updates on the account and over the past year, I regret to inform you the owner hasn’t had too many thoughts of thrift and the balance remains static at a solitary £1.00.
The latest letter offering sympathy for my death from the chief constable no less brings me into the subject of the amount of mail sent to the address for different persons.

I have recently had my blog visited, comment left by anonymous, comment which includes very few words of encouragement but quite a sizeable chunk describing his delight at finding a site where widgets can be found.
At first, I felt somewhat violated, even more so when I find out the perpetreur is suspected of being French.
My right
The light is so bad to day that typing is getting a pain.

I now remember doing a section long ago describing my search for widgets and all things to play with.
As long as the link is true why should I care?

Seems I’m unable to remove comments anyway so what’s to stop some joker plastering my blog with comments containing links to sites?
Attention to which will no doubt bring reward for referrer.

There are proposals for an increase in the charge for tipping, which will; I presume have a knock on effect to the incidence of fly tipping.
Which is currently out of control, apparently in some areas of the world?

I say and write world because this is no longer each communities’ problem.
You can be staying in one of the nicest, clean resorts an island can offer, but round the corner and up above you the residents are simply flinging anything and everything down the mountainside into the sea below.

Seen the same in Scotland and Ireland, couldn’t tell in parts of Wales but generally a tidy place.
God bless, Port mead! And the Caddle Mart.

I’m sure I’ve heard a woman say,” You can never have enough”,
It was either shoes handbags or plastic carrier bags.

Whichever they fill the house.
Bags full of,
Carrier bags,
Cupboards of bags,
Bags in drawers,
Bags in piles!
Freshly nicked from local supermarket by the hand full.
Laying there, obedient, quietly reassuring you of their presence, should you ever be in need of,
Another carrier bag.
They have devised hefty purpose made carriers for my spirits and for that I am eternally grateful.
The times I sweated returning to the car with over stressed carrier bags of weighty and expensive booze.

“What it to become of us?” you all cry,
“Who gives a fuck,” I reply.

To worry about engaging the wrath of any reader who has so far managed to stay the course, I make another tentative link to a past post by mentioning yet again.
Skegness.
The answer to all our shopping problems at least can be solved by taking a week’s vocation in Skegness and not coming home without an over-sized re-enforced, guaranteed to grant piece of mind, somewhat tartan design sporting, shopping bag or the even larger all purpose version.
The smaller version can hold, I’m sure the equivalent of four carrier bags of cans for example far superior and easier to transport from the till to car.

Notice I stipulate till to car boot.
I’m not advocating these extra large, extra strong bags for transporting goods over longer distances on foot, especially the larger ones.
But for the safe transport of a precious cargo of spirits to be enjoyed upon your return then, I would definitely bring one into service for such a shopping expedition.

I mean this advice for all the privileged disabled drivers who after being granted optimum choice of parking are only faced with the problem of getting from A to b with a lot of shopping.
Because believe me, we shop, buy as much as we can possibly manage in one go, struggle though the pain of bending to empty a trolley full of predominantly cans.
Watching my purchases pass through the check out and down the polished steel slide on the other side.
I’m still putting the rest onto the counter.
I’m thinking to myself, I have that lot to catch, bag, and carry,
I add, and then home,

And with renewed vigour supplied by that addition I try to pack away my goods while a checkout girl is asking for the money and would I mind moving a little quicker, there are others in the queue.

And don’t you fucking know it!

There they stand watching your every movement,
witness to the safe collection of every item.
I put the last few items into the oversized bags in the trolley with my left hand whilst trying to collect my change and an exceptionally long till receipt with my right hand.
Quick push to car, some effort required lifting into boot.
First part of now monthly shopping trip, over.

Fifty yards up the road and your spine reminds you you shouldn’t have done what you have just done.
You feel the pain and think to yourself wait till we get home, you bastard and those stairs.
Yes by the time you get the few but heavy bags upstairs you are fucked but it hasn’t meant constant running backwards and forwards carrying plastic bags.
After a couple of these excursions you learn to plan your shopping, taking note of expected weight and soon an acceptable level of pain is agreed upon according to load inflicted upon spine.

People used to say, “You’re never far away from a rat”,
Even nearer nowadays.

When did we become this population of people with a car or two and a bin or three outside their front door?

When did we decide our narrow village streets need decorating with cars either side like some form of Xmas decoration?

I almost felt an urge to be? No its gone.
Spark up.

Do not be confused and think the above is a subliminal message,
It is neither a ploy to get you interested in cannabis or indeed an instruction.
A hint of the ambience of the moment,
A hint of action appropriate for the moment, perhaps.

My writing about my hate for plastic carrier bags came out of my quickly conceived idea to write about or follow on to the first item of interest I found in the local newspaper.
Ah, you all say.
Yes I read newspapers, sometimes lots of them from all around the world if my wish takes me and I want to compare reporting techniques across the globe.
Can be a right eye opener.
Until you take the time to learn just enough of the history of the country, the politics, religion and restrictions to what we accept as being a normal life which may exist because of the three.
You then realise how “lucky” we are to be told the news,
But have the ability and choice to search out alternatives.

If you really want to know what is really going on and get as near to the action as the troops by being present in real time with them as they carry out their duties of obeying commands.
Find the websites, view the video, and listen in particular to the audio.
Read the reports,
Read the stats and try to understand the apparent strategy, which has been adopted.

I recall listening to some of the excited comments from a soldier reporting on the devastation being caused to a nearby area of land being attacked by missiles,
To flush out a lone sniper.
Reminiscent of the crowd of excited boys hanging around the rifle range at the village fair so many years ago.

To find someone guilty on the spot then drive your tank, not once but twice over his taxi, not war as I imagined it, I must admit.
But what had I imagined war to be?
I’d been brought up on a strict diet of the Beano, an occasional, very, very occasional, dandy if beano not delivered.
No action heroes for me, just quirky characters in various unbelievable settings.

To get back to my point there was an author of recent note, a guy from Baghdad I think who started a report blog, keeping people informed of life at the front so to speak.
I forget the awards he received but in terms of sheer financial reward he received a book, and film offer as well as fame.
To read some of the less well known posts, some are really eye opening, simple, honest descriptions of everyday life in their hovel.
Yet somehow these people have access to Internet services,
Looking at some of the ridiculously low figures for broadband take up in some of the less well developed countries it makes you wonder how they are able to post regularly.

Perhaps I’m a simple voyeur?
Simple something, you think, aloud.

I read a piece, a day in the life of a housewife/mother.
Just sat and listed everything she had done and that had happened since she opened her eyes that morning.
It was at first a list, then a couple of pieces of sarcasm and humour appeared and by the middle she was in full flow and piecing everything together,
It flowed, and my eyes wanted to follow the flow because she talking, I was hearing here voice as she talks to herself.

I jump onto my tricycle and peddle like hell back to the other side of the road generally known to stand for sanity.

So it’s understood I have no need for a paper copy, and once wetted the thirst for international news far outweighs the need to read the local freebie.
Will I be sad to see the demise of the paper paper as it is replaced with digital?
No.
I for one was never part of the read every fucking word in the paper crew.
The people who start on the front page and finish on the sports pages, often even reading the few pages of non stop advertising.
I therefore like the mix and match approach to choosing on line media.
There are a few sites that treat many pieces of topical news in a different light always trying to put over so called, and possibly often so, true facts.
Failing that, often a thought provoking slant on the accepted version.

Is there a way to stop it completely?
I think not if most of them to be directly employed by firms to leaflet en mass.
Therefore no means of control.

The WWW is going to be turned into a magical adventure playground sponsored by a worldwide business community.
A world of knowledge will be mixed with liberal doses of video and audio subject matter for your delight.
Your surfing will be accompanied by your electronic notebook and shopping trolley in case you wish to avail yourself of any of the millions of shopping opportunities that will make them selves known to you in various shapes and forms, along your chosen route.

Or is the route to be chosen for you?

Should someone have the power to choose your route for you and continue for as long as you cease to want to be led.
This virtual world, managed by the outer ring of the combined computer forces of web 2 will solve the expected problem of bandwidth misuse in terms of sheer wastage of resources.
It would, if allowed to be managed, allow skilled operatives to control a lot of the hitherto uncontrollable aspects of the web and its users.

I look at the design of the actual wheelie bin and see any rat having a hard time getting in as along as the bin is upright.
A play ground for downloaders, up loaders and not quite sure users

Anyway why would it bother when there are so many plastic carrier bags laid around full of fuck knows what.
The contents, to remain a mystery, until revealed by some animal searching for food.

I take a pause and clear my head by scratching it, I twice have to blow fallen hairs from the keyboard, more signs of my body being unable to hang on to the hair remaining.

Or get it delivered!
Which would cut down on the amount of plastic carrier bags.
But we wouldn’t get far in our cars;
they’d be delivery vans every fucking street corner.

I think not.

So you ladies will continue to pay top prices for manicure and risk damage from the plastic carrier bag.
You will continue to lose jewellery from wrist and finger, torn off by the action of rabid handles.

A plastic carrier bag at the North Pole and not even a Tesco in sight,
And they get everywhere.
Anyone watching the undercover program on food supermarkets will understand,

No matter how much the issue of plastic carrier bags may try to take centre stage, focus must once return to the suppliers of plastic carrier bags.
Unless under exceptional circumstance, or attempting to seek a sexually arousing sensation from lack of breath, a plastic carrier bag is seldom lethal.

Unlike some of the practises highlighted in the report.

· Rat infested warehouses adjoining premises open to the public for selling food.
· Dubious suppliers of meat and poultry.
· Inconsistent temperature regulation of meat produce.
· Blatant falsification of required records.
· Same records used in evidence in any court case, which may arise from consumption of contaminated food.
· Cross contamination of knives and serving tools.
· Inconsistent cleaning of food areas.
· Revamping out of date meat as mince.
· Being under pressure to keep dept. takings up to scratch, expectations.
· Meet projections.
· Complete lack of adhesion to even the basic of hygiene rules in some of the assembly lines of the ready meals suppliers.
· Thawing and refreezing of stock.
· I suppose insufficient vetting of applicants credentials should be included.
The two reporters had blagged their way into employment.

There was a brief piece that covered recycling ever so tenuously, a thread I will grasp to pull everything together.
The suppliers were found to favour open skips for storing dead birds, maggot infested, not just the corpses but the whole area of the skip, covered in very healthy looking, wouldn’t have minded a couple of pints of them beauts, they did look plump.
All dripping to the ground, yards away from the live birds awaiting selection.

And what a relief death must be some of these urine burned, malformed, unexercised, unhealthy birds.
Which due to their diet contains a lot more fat than we may be aware of,
A lot more!

I tend to rely a lot on visual and audio input rather than facts and figures.
When I watched the undercover report, I decided by the tone of voice and mannerisms that the majority was in fact kosher.

My chosen supermarket is a small place set in the middle of a car park,
Being situated thus I feel confident that any rat activity would be noticed.
It is Netto and is therefore cheap and basic, unassuming and therefore almost refreshingly hassle free shopping.

I mention the shop because there is a security guard who works there has been known to assist customers with their packing and indeed helped me once when I was getting alarmed at the speed of the checkout girl considering I was the only customer in line.

Talking of food and needing to exercise a numb bum I decide a portion of activity is called for, electing to make a fresh brew at the same time.

I will treat myself to chocolate, and perhaps biscuits, if any remain.

Thus sated I return to the last leg of the shift,

For some reason I have lost the use of the volume control from the keyboard.
This of course annoys me,
I use the mouse to increase the volume and set off again knowing full well the volume will be too loud, the players control lacking the refinement of the keyboard controls.

Play with wheel and there is no response,
Fuck it, I think and dismiss its very presence.

True shopping is a nightmare and an expedition is a pain in the arse, back, neck shoulders and knee but it is part of our basic functions, alongside shitting and taking a leak.

An acceptable part of our everyday life much as the plastic carrier bag has become this century.

I started off fishing with a made for purpose wooden box seat, migrated to the less uncomfortable, fashionable retro cane basket.
Moved to folding chair and carrier bag of gear and grub.
So I cannot say anything when the fishing area is strewn with plastic carrier bags and the discarded remnants of their contents.

So I got stoned again, sat for eight hours in a room, which
Is now too warm for any sensible degree of comfort.
Totally unventilated.
This is the joint I rely on to set me up for the best part of the rest of the waking hours.
The penultimate.

Why I chose seven o’clock as finish time and six o’clock onwards to be recreational if so desired, I will never know.
I have tried to take on the theme
Of the problem of disposing of 100 million tons of rubbish each year,
That’s just us, I think.

That’s a lot of shit!

I still say burn it.
As apposed to digging a hole, burying it and monitor the gasses coming off and hoping for the best.
Taking into account any possible changes to the structure of the surroundings.

Hell if Aviation fuel is to be believed to start a fire to melt the steel innards of a concrete building then surely sufficient heat can reduce our refuse to harmless by products.

Hell and archaeology student I may not be but I do understand water takes quite a diverse path to our reservoirs and is fond of creating new avenues for travel if and when required with resistance from only the densest of stratas.

Imagine for a moment a world without the plastic carrier bag,
Then think back and remember when such a world indeed existed.

It was longer; I fear then any young reader’s memories.

Then there are third species of bag related source of disquiet.

When is a bin liner, a bin liner?
Simple question, simple answer,
When its inside a fucking bin.
Not piled up ten to dozen alongside an overfilled bin, lid open and nearby pile of sacks providing yet another feasible rat run during the night hours.

A dustbin is no longer a dustbin when the lid is left open,
It becomes an open invitation to air borne spores or whatever else there is,
To use your bin as a breeding ground,
Possible have enough time to establish themselves in a colony on the inside surfaces of your bin.
Leave objects nearby and you allow a platform from which many animals can gain access.

What do I think of fortnightly collections?
I think that’s too much should make it once a month, and fuck the hassle of getting out of bed when hearing their approaching noisy vehicle.

Hell, I’d take it to the tip myself if we agreed a fair rate.
But could I?
I think not,
The selection system is so rigid now at these sites and numerous skips are gathered to gather different types of rubbish, all distinct from one another for various reasons.
I’d be there for ages trying to separate my mixture of personal garbage.
Would I be tempted to simply dump it and run?
I think so.
Would I be punished as a fly tipper, guilty of dumping mixed refuse in a clearly defined household rubbish skip.
Household meaning pertaining to the house in form of fittings etc,
Not garbage from the house.

I could always do what a local fish shop owner did to escape paying business and domestic refuse charges.
He would scour the backstreets looking for bins with sufficient room to carry whatever he was carrying,
Again bins overfilled and tops left open, sacks left alongside.

He didn’t try too hard to hit the bins when he decided to throw my possessions out into the backstreet.
He simply put everything in the alley and expected the bin men to clear it.

I remember the old days, the men carrying the battered metal dustbins to and from the cart, heaving each and every load into the back of the wagon.
We are asked not to fill our bins with heavy objects, thus reducing risk of being fined it someone takes the time to weigh your bin.
Better still have an on aboard computer which registers weight by stress placed on lifting arms and logs house number.
That’s assuming bin men can work to a strictly adhered to routine of emptying bins by street number and not making any possible expensive cock-up.
No problem, each bin has its own microchip, which is read and passes house number regardless of order.

You are then billed accordingly to the collection of your portion of the estimated total collected.
Then multiplied by ten, divided by the number you first thought of and multiplied again by whatever finance rate is operating.

Thus a family of six will have to pay for all the packaging, which litters up the close week in week out.
Then there’s the often to be seen companions of the wheelie bin, the redundant fridges, freezers, washing machines, and upturned sofas, waiting to be collected.
Not forgetting last years, wouldn’t it be a good idea to get a real Xmas tree? Still waiting collection some three months into the New Year.
Now there’s a time for plastic carrier bags.
New year when people who can hardly stand let alone walk insist on transporting important booze in plastic carrier bags.
A quick stumble, a feeble grasp fro the wall,
The sound of the smash as glass impacts brickwork which offered safety with one hand and removed very reason for your existence with the other.
You tidy up the next morning and the cans, which had arrived in the plastic carrier bags, are returned to same, tied into neat parcels and deposited into the bin.
The life of the bag having come to an end disappears along with any chance of recycling the metal of the cans.
I try to recycle pickle jars, growing quite an affinity so some of the more recognisable oddly shaped ones.
Beetroot, chutney, cabbage all stored in re used jars.
I have very little need to be carrying glass objects from the store.

Knocking off time.
Adieu.