Job

Techies

Know C, C++ C# for Windoze and embedded C for Microchip Micros (incl dsPICs and PIC32s), SQL, shit like that?

Know your way round an oscilloscope, Eagle CAD (6 layer stuff), basic electronics (nothing scary), bit of maths like simple algebra and basic calculus?

Want a job in Nottingham, permanent or contract?

Trans folk, poofs, women, wogs, muslims etc all welcome. English is the first language.

No lefties or others who think the world owes them a living. No bullshitters, you will be found out in minutes. No agents.

£30 p/h to start rising rapidly (or you get sacked) depending on performance.

Ping @realPengy if you want more info.

Pooves

I don't tell stuff like this. But I'm going to.

I were brought up to have some morals. No idea what. Mainly to do with not getting involved with hard drugs, such as LSD, which was a bit shit TBH. Shagging one's sister was frowned upon, that kind of thing.

When I were a lad pooves were fair game. We'd call them pooves. As you do. I still do. I don't like the word "homosexual" much.

I don't have a problem with pooves. Many folk who are my friends, and pooves, will attest to that.

But, in a Max Bygraves stylee, I want to tell you a story.

I was 17. I worked in Woolies (the shop), part time. One of the managers (and in those days it was like being a supervisor in Maccie D's) said we should go out for a drink.

So we went out for a drink. He was a bit older than me. Probably 40. Good-looking chap. We went to a pub and I said I'd have a cider. He got me a big fuckoff Bloody Mary. Must have had ten vodkas in it.

Anyway, I was 17, as I have just said (listening?) and he was significantly older, like 40 (listening?).

So, he then started the stuff that you'd expect from someone who was 40 when you're 17, and I was a good boy and was sick all over the seat of his car, which I then stole, and broke the diff box off, and he became angry. I then puked all over him, as well, and luckily at that point the landlord came out of the pub that I'd managed to "park" the car in, and called the police.

There is nothing wrong with consenting sex between two adults.

17 year old boys do not fall into the latter category.

That's what I think.

Wind in thy neck.

Con

It appears that I am a twat. This has not come as news to me; however, it appears that someone (in fact a couple of someones) have thought I was referring to them when I mentioned recently an old denizen of Twitter, one Lord Credo.

I wasn't referring to them. Lord Credo, real name forgotten in the mists of time, billed himself on Twitter as "a government comms guy" in the Tory thingy, so it can't have been that long ago. He was a likeable fellow; I thought so anyway.

He was a con artist. I met him once or twice in Olde London Town, where he would regale his fans with stories of derring-do, and give them snippets of insight into the government. Or not, as he was actually an unemployed con man.

He never had any money on him. So he never bought a round. This, I thought, was pretty clever. He also never worked for the government. He also never had any snippets of information.

If he'd stuck with taking the complete piss out of the kind of people who like to hang around the famous and important (which I would hate to do), he'd have been a bit of a hero.

Unfortunately, he didn't stop there. He conned his way into one lady's affections, and another lady's wallet, which makes him a cunt.

Shame. He'd have been up there with Ponzi, Bernie Madoff and 100 Nigerians if he'd stuck to what he was good at. Heroes all, playing on people's greed and stupidity. What's not to like about that?

Anyway, for the record. The penguin offers its sincerest apologies to anyone who was properly hurt by the Credo. Truly sorry. If either of his real victims would like me to tweet their name and that it wasn't directed at them in any way, please do so. I wouldn't mention them by name otherwise. I like both of them.

*Continues to laugh like a drain at those wannabee hangers-on who thought he was the fame and fortune they were looking for. Bwahaha..*

Think

This close to shoving the radio in the bin. I haven't had a telly for ten years or more.

All I have heard today is bollocks about mental Halloween costumes.

I know nothing of mental illness. I don't know what it is nor what defines it. I suspect it is "not normal", and I'd like to see what "normal" is. I know I'm desperately pissed off by politics, and people who seem to think that one or other camp of politics is good/bad, etc. So I live outside it.

I have two friends who are mentally ill, as in the definition of mentally ill that someone decided is not normal.

One is psychotic. I don't know what that means. All I know is that the idiot stayed at my gaff for a week and we had loads of fun and nobody got killed.

The other has PTSD which is because the cunt was sent to shoot brown folk somewhere foreign and I know that would do my head in too.

So, the psychotic (whatever that is) one gets grassed up by do-gooders and all they need is leaving alone to get on.

The PTSD one is a complete cunt but doesn't do stuff I wouldn't do. He's fucking sound. And bright too.

However, the people that do the grassing up are control freaks, tossers, and the kind of people who advocate stuff like gay marriage, which I think is more bonkers than the other folk, because I really don't think that an alternative to a nice wet pussy is a teenage boy's bottom.

So. That's what I think.

I don't care what you think. Just don't tell me what I should think.

I might buy one of those "mental" costumes. It's either going to be jeans and a t-shirt or jeans and a t-shirt. That's all I ever see the real nutjobs in.

Bye.

Mobility

This is about Social Mobility.

I have no idea what it means but I think, from listening to the short-arsed sponging twat Blears earlier, it means this:

Folk from "lower class" (her words) backgrounds do not have the same start in life as those from "middle class" (again, her words) backgrounds.

And to that, I say, "THAT'S BOLLOCKS."

Read my blog. I wasn't born with a silver spoon. We had no silver, not even pewter, nor even a pot in which to piss. I learnt to eat fast so I got most. I now eat incredibly slowly.

My old man, who is ace, had about 47265 jobs before I got to secondary school. I passed the 11+, which was a stupid thing designed to put the non-thick in a different place from the thick. They must have got the results mixed up. So, anyway, I went to "public" skool, because there wasn't a "normal" "grammar" skool anywhere near. I was there six months. I was expelled for setting fire to a prefect. Stupid me, fancy picking one who was going to grass me up.

Having been thrown out, my old man winged his way into a job by bullshit and nadgering his way in. He bought the first house we "owned" (banks owned it). I was, and still am, a cunt. I took O levels, most of which I failed with flying colours, then A levels (same as), passed music brilliantly, failed the rest. It was the worst skool in the country bar none. Ben Elton went to it. Wanker.

I went for a job and got it because I am full of shit, and set fire to the governor's Jag in the first week. By dint of having bollocks the size of coconuts and blaming some other poor sod, I was kept on.

I knew already that there were more people than jobs. I didn't want to end up like I used to be. So I licked arse, sucked cock, and generally, when asked to jump, asked "how high, Sir?"

And now, DESPITE fucking job agents, I'm doing pretty well.

I still lick arse. I still suck cock. And I see people, daily, who don't, and who don't last.

NO politician put me where I am, nor could they.

YOU make of life what YOU want to make of it. I'm not bright. I'm not even cunning, like a fox who's been to the University of Cunning, Cunningsville. I've just been where I don't want to be, and I ain't going there again.

So, Hazel, fuck off.

Dinners

This is about School Dinners.

When I were a lad, we were skint. Proper skint. My old man, who is the most awesome bloke on the planet, left the RAF to bail out his old man's butchery business. Didn't work. Both of them went bankrupt.

My grandad did well originally, self-made man, had a factory. The government compulsorily purchased it in the war. Well, I say purchased, gave him fuck all for it, knocked it down, used it as a tank park to protect the South-West entrances to the UK, which nobody ever invaded, and without as much as a "fuck you" reduced him to a potless wreck.

Anyway. my old man did OK in the end. Through lashings of bullshit and winging it.

In the meantime, we had the dinner tickets, so we had a different colour ticket from the folk that could afford it. Ours were beige.

One day in the dinner queue, a chap who turned out to be head boy later on had forgotten his ticket. I lent him one of my dinner tickets.

"Oh, no," said Mick (for that was his name), "you don't want to get into that kind of thing." So he went without dinner. I sneaked some chips out for him in a serviette after.

Anyway. MANY years later I went to a school reunion. Mick (now Michael) made a beeline for me. I asked how he was doing, because he was DEAD CLEVER at school. I said "I bet you went to Oxford or Cambridge." He told me that he'd been to both, did some bollocksy politics thing, and had a life-changing thingy one day. Apparently he realised it was all shite and remembered the poor boy (nobody ;loves him) from a poor family (sharing his wife for some pork sausages, Bizmillah) who'd offered his dinner ticket one day, and he jacked it all in, and joined a Jesus Commune in Northampton where they make sandwiches to sell to local shops to make ends meet.

So there you go. Weird story but all true.

Pink custard.

Balls

I'be been listening to Mr Balls, the Shadow Chancellor, on economics.

I have to conclude he's got a point.

Let a and b be equal numbers, such as a trillion pounds.

a=b

Multiply by a:

a²=ab

Subtract b²:

a²-b²=ab-b²

Factor:

(a-b)(a+b)=b(a-b)

Divide by (a-b):

a+b=b

As a=b, substitute:

b+b=b

Combine:

2b=b

Divide by b:

2=1

And that is why economics is Balls.