A Scandal & A Disgrace’s blog

So that's Motorhead, The Answer, Joe Bonamassa, Matt Anderson, more Motorhead, Saxon, Rod Stewart, loads of Status Quo, Behemoth, Eddie Money, Young Heart Attack, Rose Tattoo, House of Lords, more Saxon, Black Label Society, more Motorhead, Nightwish, Tyr, WASP, Y&T and more Saxon.

Um.  OK.  Maybe not.  Still looks like it's 1981 in my metal thrashing mad head.

But I'm sure the next time I check, it will be all Snow Patrol, Coldplay, Editors and a whole pile of shite that properly reflects my advanced years.

Or not.

Ex-manager of WWE star The Undertaker, Paul Bearer, has a degree in mortuary science and manages a funeral home in his hometown of Mobile, Alabama.

It's fate, innit.

But with everything so tickety boo, I had time to spare.  Excellent, thought I, I'll pay those cheques into the bank, go to the Post Office and take those two heavy bags of charitable donations to the nearest charidee shop.  Which, in my case, is Barnardos at the foot of Leith Walk.

So, off I went.  Roond the corner, through the Social Work car park, a quick abseil through the tram works, and there I was.

First off, I thought there was no-one in the shop.  I hunted round and saw a pimply youth picking his scabs with a desk key.  "Can I just leave these bags of very expensive clothes here?", says I.  "I see you have a sign in the window saying how desperate you are for donations".

The scab picking pauses only for the pimply one to say "no, we only take furniture and books".

I was perplexed for a moment, and remained silent.  He then went on "there's another shop up at Pilrig you can take them to."

Now Pilrig is half a mile away, and it's no business of the pizza faced one that I'm an inch shorter than I was two years ago, due to my crumbling spine.  Nor does he need to know that the only thing stopping me getting a hip replacement is the fact that my back isn't strong enough to take it, and neither is the knee that has no cartilage left.  So I provided a simple "I can't walk that far as I have a bad back".

He looked away.  I continued.  "So I'll just to put fifty quids worth of donations in your rubbish bin".  I was waiting for him to say something along the lines of "oh, no, we have a massive network of vans constantly carrying goods around between shops.  Please let me take those heavy bags off you, and I'll arrange for them to be taken to the other shop".

But no.  He continued scratching.  I went outside the shop and made an almighty racket putting bagfuls of expensive clothes in the bin, thinking about the kiddywinks missing out on a twice worn pinstripe suit, amongst many other gems.  I looked through the window as I hirpled away,  He was still scratching. I hope they go to hell.

Postscript

It was only when I was halfway home that I remembered a previous post about Barnardos being shite.  Last year, after my mother died, I phoned them up to come and take her furniture away, some of which was top notch, some of which was antique.  They tried to tell me when I should be in the house waiting for them. When I pointed out that I was a busy man, and that they would need to be a wee bit flexible, they said no.  They would give me an appointment that suited them. I told them where to go.  Damn my failing memory!  I could have saved myself some pain.