Tag: Annoying

7 Reasons Reccurring Dreams Are Annoying

I had a dream last night. And the other week. And last month. And the month before that. It’s getting boring now. Annoying even.

1. Repetition. As one may have established a reccurring dream is one that happens time after time after time. I suffer with one. It’s about me, back at school or university, with an impending deadline. The problem is, I haven’t even started doing my work. The scenario usually means I have twenty-four hours to write a dissertation. As dreams go, it is rubbish. I’d be annoyed if it happened once in a year, but to have it once every couple of weeks is just plain tiresome.

2. Panic. Despite the fact that it is a dream, I can’t help but get in panic. Though it’s an odd panic. In my dream I am not panicking. Which annoys me for starters, but it’s not half as annoying as the panic I feel in the sleeping me. As if I am watching my dream from above yet I am unable to control any of my actions. I want myself to panic, in much the same way as I want England to play good football. The more I want it though, the more I seem to laugh about the situation. In much the same way as the more I want England to play good football, the more Emile Heskey touches the ball.

3. Logic. Or should that be the lack of it. In last nights dream I appeared to be less interested in getting to the library to do my work and instead was solely focused on returning the ‘Automatic Putting Device’ to its home in the shed. No, I have no idea what an ‘Automatic Putting Device’ is either. Nor why it lives in a shed. In real-life I would like to think I would question such a thing, but in my dream state it was as natural to me as scratching my armpit.

4. Meaning. What does a reccurring dream about not doing your coursework mean? It’s not as if when I was at school or university I didn’t do my work and get it in on time. Well, not often anyway. So it’s not as if I am re-living my younger days and it’s not a metaphor for my attitude today. If I don’t have any work I can hardly hand it in late can I? It’s baffling.

5. People. None of my friends or family ever appear in my reccurring dreams, which seems somewhat ironic seeing as they are the reccurring characters in my life. Instead, I end up being friends with someone from school or university who I have never been friends with in my life. That’s not to say I disliked them, we just didn’t hang around together. In my dream though, we seem to do nothing but hang around together. Hang around together not doing our coursework and taking Automatic Putting Devices to sheds. Hardly the stuff of legend.

6. Realisation. That moment when I wake up and realise it was all a dream. Again. I curse myself for being unable to dream about something more interesting. Cricket or tea or an opossum. And then I curse myself for not realising during the dream that I was dreaming. Why can’t I just recognise that I have been here before? Why can’t I wake myself up, turn over and think about Dame Edna Everage talking to her opossums? Why? Why can’t I?

7. Resentment. They say the grass is always greener on the other side. Sometimes, this is ridiculously wide of the mark, but when it comes to me and my dreams, it is as true as the existence of you and me. If there is ever a conversation about dreams, I try and avoid it. I don’t want to listen to their tales of heroism and joviality. I get jealous. Why them? Why not me? Even more frustrating is when I am asked if I had a dream. I can only describe the feeling as one of loneliness and inadequacy. And it keeps me annoyed for the rest of the day.

January 14, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Flying With A Strange Man Is Annoying

A few weeks ago – much to the consternation of Italy – I went to Rome. Accompanying me on the epic trip was my girlfriend. While I have covered why Rome and I disagreed in great depth here, I did not speak about our flight home. A flight which split my girlfriend and I up. Though only for two and a half hours. For the duration, I sat next to a woman who seemed interested in children’s illustration. While my girlfriend sat next to a strange man. And an annoying man. That’s one person, not two. This is Claire Quinn’s story.

Google Images' Most Popular Annoying Passenger

1. Newspaper. Folding, unfolding, folding, unfolding, folding, unfolding. Rustling, crumpling, rustling, crumpling, rustling, crumpling. All the time. I don’t even think he could read.

2. View. It would have been lovely to see the sunset over Europe, instead I saw the back of a man’s head. And a newspaper.

3. G&T. This was a kind of torture. I wanted a G&T, he had a G&T. I couldn’t have a G&T as someone had to drive us home when we got back to Heathrow. (When I say ‘us’ I don’t mean the annoying man, I mean the strange man. Jon.) But the annoying man didn’t seem to care about any of this, so he sat there drinking his G&T. Slowly. That is not the way to drink a G&T.

4. Lemon. Apart from being a lemon, he had a lemon. It was in his G&T, then it was in his mouth. And he was chewing it and chewing it and chewing it and chewing it. And then he rustled his newspaper.

5. Coat. The annoying man was wearing the thickest coat that I have ever seen. It was so thick he probably should have had a seat of it’s own. But it wasn’t so much the coat that annoyed me as the fact that he was wearing his coat. Who wears a coat on a plane? What did he have to hide? Thinking about in now though, I am glad I never found out.

6. Fidgeting. As if the rustling and the crumpling and the folding and unfolding and the chewing and the chewing wasn’t enough, he was also a fidgeter. His legs were jigging up and down as if he was on of those wind-up toys. Shame he wasn’t. I’d have put him in reverse and destroyed the mechanism.

7. Earplugs. The most annoying thing – yes, all the above were relatively minor – is that he wouldn’t have realised just how annoying he was because he was wearing earplugs. So he didn’t hear any of the crumpling and rustling and folding and unfolding and chewing and jigging. None of it. He just enjoyed the silence. Or maybe he knew how annoying and loud he was which is why he wore earplugs? So he didn’t have to listen to it. That just makes him even more annoying.

November 20, 2010
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Student Accommodation Can Be Rather Tiresome

Something a bit special is happening on the 7 Reasons sofa today. For the first time ever, one Lee is being replaced by another. I, Jon, am stepping aside and handing control of 7 Reasons over to my brother, Rob. This may backfire quite substantially, but for the sake of me having a day off , it is a risk I am more than happy to take. If you enjoy Rob’s ranting you may be interested in reading his first book, Shattered Souls. It contains no ranting, but does feature a place called RedFjord. Amazon are also currently offering a very generous 90p discount which is quite a bonus. Right, here’s Rob. I’m off out to buy some more asterisks.

1. The Fridge. The fridge is always too small. Always. What is it about landlords and small fridges? Do they not think that their tenants might want to buy food? We don’t all survive on takeaway and ready meals y’know. Some of us can even use rudimentary kitchen utensils, or combine ingredients that aren’t cheese, tomato sauce, and frozen chips. Despite this, it’s always a case of having one shelf in the fridge. I don’t know about you, but cheese takes up about half the space in mine, let alone any other food. And no I am not willing to freeze it. Frozen cheese is an abomination. Step one, get bigger fridges.

2. The Builders. Why is it that student landlords always have builders doing ‘things’ with the house? Things which are seemingly unnecessary, and even these are invariably done badly. So the landlord is called; he/she is forced to come round; then they call back the same builders who did it wrong in the first place!* Even worse, they give them keys to the property. Yes, do go in, don’t mind them, they’re just sleeping**. The landlord comes out with things like ‘don’t lock your door so my builders can get in’. What? I’m not leaving my door unlocked in a student neighbourhood – I may as well just leave my valuables on a park bench with a ‘Take-Me Big Boy’ sign. I’m also not letting some Charlie I’ve never met, wander about, knocking bits out of the place I’m living, without someone there to stop him. (Or her. We’re very broad minded here).

3. The Neighbours. Student housing has neighbours. Invariably only about two feet away from you and separated by a wall about as thick as a cream cracker. This is not good when one wishes to sleep. Especially because the neighbours always seem to be nocturnal and have absolutely no taste in music. Music which they broadcast to the entire street***. Neighbours shouldn’t be allowed.

4. The Parking. There isn’t any. Many students have cars so they can move their collection of road signs, traffic cones, novelty hats and foreign vodka from one place to another. Lots of cars and no parking is an equation that doesn’t work. It also means walking anywhere becomes a game of car-dodgems from idiots who, having shared their lack of taste in music with the street, have decided to drive down the one you’re walking along.

5. The Bathrooms. There’s only ever one. This is annoying when you’ve just got in from a post seminar drink and discover you have to wait half an hour to use the facilities. Either that or you nip back round the corner to the local public house to use theirs and nearly end up locked in because you’ve discovered the only pub in the area which kept to a closing time of 11pm when all the rest changed to an hour before dawn****.

6. The Annual Quest For Housing. Unless you happen to be lucky enough to be in a house which is not leaking, falling down, being sold to a private individual who doesn’t want to live with students, being sold to another landlord who seems to think letting to undergrads will be easier than letting to postgrads, a pit, too small, too big, too expensive, neighboured by idiots called Nelson who keep getting stoned and wandering about outside shouting ‘Hash’ at 3am in the morning***** and then playing their music so loud that industrial-level earplugs make no difference, then you invariably find yourself moving. (Insert breath here). This effectively entails scouring housing lists on the internet and engaging in the blind battle that is finding the only decent place before all the other people do. This process is annoying, especially because it also means parting with large amounts of money in the form of deposits which you’ve only just got back from the last place******.

7. The students. There’s far too many of them*******.

*Not all builders get it wrong, some are very good at their job, however, student landlords like it cheap. Cheap and good don’t go together in building work, ask the bridge builders of Delhi.

**No, not as you may imagine at 3pm in the afternoon, but in fact at 6am when the banging starts. And by banging I don’t mean another apparently favourite activity of the undergraduate student.

***Unhappily half the time much of the street is broadcasting back, and Classic FM it certainly isn’t, it’s not even Radio 2.

**** This may or may not have happened. It does not particularly help if you just returned from a smart do and are dressed in black trousers white shirt – the staff may think you work in the cellar. This also may or may not have occurred.

*****This did happen. Many times. Many many times (a little classic comedy nod there, if you know what it refers to then I’m sure Julian and Sandy will see you right).

******Yes, everyone renting has to pay deposits, so feel free to join in being annoyed about this point even if you’re not in the university system.

*******As a postgrad I don’t consider myself a student, especially since I teach the little terrors (ahem, the academic future of this country) too. Postgrads are excluded from the above rants. Unless Nelson ever becomes a postgrad. I won’t worry about him reading this; I don’t imagine he knows how to read.

October 30, 2010
Guest Post: 7 Reasons That Recycling Is Rubbish

It’s fair to say that the 7 Reasons Sofa Tour of The United States (Manchester, Scotland and rainy streets) is well and truly over now. While we have enjoyed our foray over the Atlantic (Pennines, border and road) in the past month or so, there is nothing quite like being at home. Taking over sofa duties today is Richard O’Hagan, who, apart from being a fanatical environmentalist (if this post is to be believed) writes about stuff for The Memory Blog, the Daily Mail and Cricket With Balls. You can follow him on Twitter and get directions to his house here. Over to you Richard.

Don’t get me wrong here, recycling is a good thing. At least for the next couple of generations. After which time we’ll have recycled everything so many times that no-one will really care any more, because everyone will have forgotten how to make anything new anyway. No, what I really object to is my local council saying that I have to recycle stuff, then only collecting half of the stuff they tell you to recycle.

1. Rubbish In Car. The council have dustcarts to take the rubbish away. Recycling is still rubbish. Why the hell am I having to put it in my car and drive it to the recycling point. It’s bad enough that you are using me to do the job you should be doing, do you have to take my vehicle as well?

2. Colour Blindness. They insist that I divide my glass into clear, green and brown. Apparently you can never cross the streams and mix green with brown. But I am colour blind. I can no more tell green from brown than I can give birth. Which means that 2/3 of my trip is entirely pointless. No, more than that, because where’s the bin for this blue vodka bottle? Or this yellow lemon juice one?

3. Wasps. What do wasps like most? Sticky, sweet stuff? Like, maybe, the fermenting dregs of booze in a bottle bank? Yes, at this time of year, going to the bottle bank – if you can work out which bin to put which bottle in – is like visiting a giant wasps nest. So now I have a smelly car, am worried that I might be putting stuff in the wrong bins, and am now risking death by wasp sting.

4. Foil. The council also insist that I recycle foil. But only clean foil. Which is completely useless, because I need the clean foil I have to put over stuff that I am cooking with. The whole point of foil, in fact, is that it gets dirty. And have you every tried to wash the stuff? It is like trying to wash custard skin. So now I have to choose the lesser of two evils and recycle less-than-clean-foil. Which leads to

5. Dirty Hands. Dustmen get given gloves. If the council want me to do their job, surely they should give me gloves. So not only do I get confused and stung by doing the recycling, I also have dirty hands. Although my car is also dirty.

6. Boxes. And then there is the cardboard box problem. To get the cardboard boxes to the recycling, you need to put them in something. Such as a bigger cardboard box. Which you then put into a bigger cardboard box. And then a bigger cardboard box. Until you end up with a box so big, it won’t go through the stupidly small, letterbox-like, slot they have put in the cardboard container. So you leave it on the ground, along with the boxes left by everyone else who had the same problem, because

7. Mountains. The council don’t believe in emptying the recycling until there is a mountain of cardboard that even Sir Chris Bonington would baulk at. Which means I’ve got dirty, my car has got dirty, and I have been stung and confused, simply to create a small version of the very big rubbish tip I still suspect the council of carting the whole lot off to anyway. Pah. Recycling is rubbish.

September 4, 2010
7 Reasons That Vuvuzelas Are Annoying

1. The Obsession. The nation is obsessed with the vuvuzela. It’s impossible to read a newspaper, listen to the radio, watch the television, go to the pub, or read an internet humour site without someone bleating on about vuvuzelas. But I think that this focus on the vuvuzela is causing us to miss out on other World Cup stories. We’re just not getting enough ill-informed conjecture about problems with the ball: Is it that it’s too round? Is it the altitude? Does it fly too straight? Doesn’t it fly straight enough? Does it look too much like a fly?

It's a fly!

All of the coverage of the vuvuzelas is preventing us from having what we really want. 24 hour per day coverage of the ball. And more Robbie Savage.

2. The Name. The English language is a fusion of many languages from around the world and a lot of our words come from other countries. We get bungalow from India, sepia from Italy, mammoth from Russia and surrender from France (rather unsurprisingly). Yet it’s safe to say that our language wasn’t aided in its evolution by anyone who had been involved in professional football as, in the past week – from various players and former-players – I’ve heard “vuvulas”, “vuvuslas”, “the horns” and from Sir Geoff Hurst, no less, “uvuvezlas”. The awful mangling of the word vuvuzela is possibly the only thing that’s more grating than the sound of the instrument itself.

3. Stadium Atmosphere. The din of the vuvuzelas drowns out everything else occurring in the stadiums. This isn’t always a bad thing, as it drowned out the sound of happy Germans on Sunday, but it drowned everything else out too. The crowd reaction, singing, cheering, chanting, abuse; in fact, just about all of the things that reflect the partisan nature of football. The drone of massed vuvuzelas is a relentless unremitting cacophany that doesn’t abuse the referee, ask Fabio to dance, play the theme from The Great Escape (sorry, poor argument); doesn’t do anything fun or interesting at all. It’s just noise. An incessant racket that drowns out everything good about the stadium atmosphere. Everything.

4. Domestic Atmosphere. The vuvuzela operates at a similar pitch and tone to the human voice which means that, when you’re viewing the World Cup at home, you’re trying to filter out the frequency that other people in the room are speaking at. Thanks to the vuvuzela, if my wife turned to me during a match and said, “Would you like a beer?” or “Jennifer Aniston’s at the door, she wants to know if you can come out to play,” I probably wouldn’t hear her. Experience tells me that she’s unlikely to say either of those things, but what if she did and I missed it? Catastrophe. I hate going to the fridge.

5. Envy. It’s substantial, straight and three feet long, and I must say that I’m quite jealous, as there’s no way I could take anything like that to a football match in England. I’d probably be fed to a police-horse or charged with possession of a vuva vovos avuvuvu…“I’ll let you off with a caution this time sonny, now on your way”. We don’t even get trusted with bottled water over here.

6. Sound. The sound of massed vuvuzelas is like the sound of a swarm of angry wasps, but deeper. Usually, the larger an animal is, the deeper the sound that they make – so it’s giant angry wasps that we’ll hear the sound of all summer. Giant angry wasps! Well I certainly won’t be falling asleep during a match, or at any time at all during the summer. Except when Andy Townsend’s “analysing” the action, that is.

7. We’re Stuck With Them. There is only one thing that would be worse than enduring the sound of the vuvuzela: That would be banning the vuvuzela. Just because we Europeans have our own expectations of how a football match should be viewed, it doesn’t mean that they should be forced on the rest of the world. This is South Africa’s World Cup, and god knows they’ve earned it. World Cup 2010 should be a uniquely African spectacle and, much to my annoyance, this includes that giant dung beetle thing from the opening ceremony and the bloody vuvuzelas. But we shouldn’t be downhearted about this; sometimes the most memorable parts of World Cups are the unique things that the host nations bring to them. Mexico ’86’s wave, Argentina ’78’s ticker-tape, Italia ’90’s Three Tenors and USA ’94’s blank incomprehension about some sort of soccer-ball tournament going on. Long after many of the matches and incidents are forgotten, these are the memories that remain. And so it will be with the vuvuzela. We will have to suffer it for a month or so, but in time it’ll be the thing that the tournament is remembered for. We may even feel nostalgia for it. Eventually.

June 15, 2010
7 Reasons The Tiger Woods ‘Story’ Is Annoying Me

1. It’s All In The Name. Half the people commenting on this story don’t even know who Tiger Woods is. I have lost count of the number of times I have seen his name written Tiger Wood or Tiger Wood’s. There are two things that really annoy me in life. Spelling names incorrectly is one of them. How hard can it be? There should be a rule. Only people who can spell properly are allowed to live. (The second thing that annoys me is when people ask, ‘Are the US/Australia/France/Bognor-bloody-Regis ahead or behind us in time?’ It’s simple geography people).

2. The Jokes. They are quite frankly rubbish. They’re obvious, poorly written, usually spelt incorrectly and not funny. Ten minutes after news of his car crash broke, everyone in the world had come up with, ‘What’s the difference between an SUV and a golf ball? Tiger Woods can drive a golf ball!’. So why then are people still posting it? Just shut up the lot of you.

3. Here, There and Everywhere. It’s dominating all media outlets. There are reports in the news, sport and entertainment sections. And they all say the same bloody thing. ‘Tiger Woods may or may not have had sexual relations with cocktail waitresses.’ Firstly, I don’t care. Secondly, it isn’t news. You may as well write, ‘Jonathan Lee may or may not have had sexual relations with a cocktail waitress,’ for all the fact that the statement contains.

4. It’s Not Happening. If the allegations are true, a few people will be outraged. But that’s it. No one is going to make an example out of him. Tiger is too big a star to be dropped by those who sponsor him. Not even Nike. Nike need Tiger more than he needs them. This is the world we live in. I don’t care whether you like it or not. It’s a fact. Nothing is going to change so get over it. Stop wasting your time by drawing up pointless petitions asking Nike to drop him. It. Will. Not. Happen.

5. We are all human. I’ve seen a lot of people say that his transgressions just show Tiger Woods is human. What?! He was a robot before was he? And since when did having an affair become acceptable? If he did have an affair, he’s an idiot. Simple as that. If you think he should be forgiven in an instant, it’s because you have been sleeping around yourself. The fact that Tiger may have done it too, makes you feel just a little bit less guilty. Twat.

6. Tiger Woods’ Downfall. There’s always a bloody Downfall spoof. And it’s always the same bloody clip. Yawn.

7. I’m A Loser. I end up writing about it. Even though I am bored to death of the story, think everyone writing or commenting on it is a muppet and my heart says I shouldn’t join in, I do. The fact is, I know it’s what people want to read about. I know that if I write it this website will get billions of hits. So I have a dilemma. Stick to my moral convictions or put on my business hat. Obviously I have no morals. It makes me sick.

December 4, 2009