Funny how you never see....

Judy Finnegan and South Park's Tweek in the same room.

Judy Finnegan is one half of Richard and Judy. This is a daytime, magazine type program on Channel 4 here in the U.K. They are probably the most idiotic, sycophantic, schmoozy, ill-educated, amateurs on T.V.

Constantly bickering with each other, (they are married to each other) Richard seems to spend the days with his bollocks in her handbag; and Judy has her brain in her bra.

Richard is the type of dickhead that, along with Ben Elton, supports the feminists' view of "all men are twats" and that they have had a raw deal. Listen Richard, we get enough gobbiness from the females; they don't need your help. (this is a whole new future blog, me thinks)

Anyway, back to the hapless Judy.

I rest my case.

Can i have the scissors when you're finished? I want to slit my throat

Went to Wotton Bassett, Wiltshire, today. I did my business by 13:30 and, as you do, went to get my hair cut.
I had to wait for 20 minutes and listen to inane gossip between the teenage “stylist” and her equally spotty, track suited, teenage victim:

“He didn’t, did he?”
“He did. And then wiped it on the on table clothe.”
“Never –no way?”
“Way”

Seeking refuge in a glossy gossip magazine –which took precisely 30 seconds cover to cover- my turn arrived.

I sit in the seat in front of a very large, very harsh mirror.

“What do you want?”
I was tempted to ask for a loaf of bread and a pound of grapes, but considered it would go straight over her, bleach-blonde head. I settled for: “Hair cut.”, which went the way I thought the bread and grape comment would.
After several instructions she seemed to get the idea that as long as my hair was shorter on the way out than it was on the way in I would be well happy.

10 minutes’ of deafening silence, except for the click-click of scissors and her sniffing, later ( I decided not to push the idea of talking about: the weather, holidays, work etc.) she snipped her way to a half-decent job.

The obligatory offering-up of the mirror to the back of the head followed and confirmed that, beyond my wishful thinking; my bald patch had not miraculously “healed” itself.

Little did I know that the most humiliating part of the experience was to come, I got up and went to the desk to pay her.

“How much do I owe you?” (And don’t bother adding a tip)
“ Are you retired?”
“WHAT!!!???”
“You get a discount if you are: retired, pregnant or in the armed forces.”

Internally, my voice said: “Which side of your face wants slapping?”
In reality I said: “I’m not retired yet but my SAS death grip will finish you in flash. Do I get a discount for that?”
Guess what? Yup. Went straight over her bleach-blonde, spotty, uneducated neck plug.

Retired?! I know the lord has given me a few wrinkles but they are laughter lines, not an age thing. Honest.