New GWR trains ‘surprisingly unshit’ says passenger

Regular train passenger and self-proclaimed ‘blogger of the people’ Ray Didcot has stunned rail bosses and passengers alike by declaring the new GWR rolling stock ‘surprisingly unshit’. Didcot, whose usually only travels within the South East, recently had to travel to Wales to attend a conference on whelk sorting.  As his latest blog post says:

“I arrived at Paddington with all the enthusiasm of a hog at an abattoir.  I knew the train was a new one, but I expected it to be like the new Thameslink- a shipping container on wheels with a seat specially engineered to give you raging haemorrhoids within a mere 20 minute journey.

“However, as I boarded the new Class 800 Intercity Express, I noticed with amazement the premium look of the seating, the fold-down tables (sans migraine-inducing screech), the little pully-outy bit for laptops, and the electronic reservations screens.  I assumed there had been some kind of mistake and that I had inadvertently wandered into 1st class, or the villain’s lair on the set of a new Bond movie.

“When I sat down I was confronted with a choice of 2 coat hooks, each window had a sun blind, and each seat – EACH FUCKING SEAT – had a plug socket.  About an hour into the journey a smiling attendant sold me a reasonably priced coffee that didn’t taste of month-old cesswater, and a cheese and pickle sandwich that unusually tasted of both cheese, and pickle.

“Here… in Britain… a train that is unshit enough to be worthy of one of the less frequently visited bits of France or Germany!  Well I never…!”

The post continues at some length extolling the virtues of the new GWR trains, and features a number of graphs comparing them with the most popular 15 types of continental rolling stock.  However, the blog ends on a sombre note:

“As we got to Newport, a fellow passenger began asking people if they knew who the owner of the bag by the vestibule door was. ‘Christ!’, I thought, ‘Don’t be a fucking hero! It’s probably some idiot gone to buy a lager in carriage K!’ but it was too late. He raised the alarm and we spent the next 14 hours somewhere between Swansea and Newport while the rozzers attempted to disarm a badminton racket.”

Facebook update is now configured to read your mind

STOP.  Don’t write that post asking for friends’ recommendations for Sushi restaurants in Harrogate.  Facebook knows you’re thinking about it and is already curating a selection of carefully targeted ads to bombard you with.

Whatever you’re thinking, Facebook knows.  Including that you fancy Megan in Accounts, not that there’s anything Facebook can do about that, right?  Wrong.  Your feed will be full of adverts for dating apps before you’ve even progressed to wondering whether she’s wearing a thong or seam-free maxi pants.  It’s a thong, for your information.  Your advert for Victoria’s Secret gift ideas is on its way…


Fox news exclusive: we’re suing Met Police for defamation

As revelations hit the headlines this week that the Croydon Cat Killer is not some weird incel bloke with mummy issues, but actually foxes, the fox community of South London has announced that they are to sue the Metropolitan Police for defamation.

“The real killer of cats is still out there while we’re all being tarred with the same brush.  I for one am not going to be able to show my face down the rec now.”  Edward Red-Mane, a scavenger from Purley, spoke to us over the phone this morning.  “Quite how those bloody stupid coppers think we’ve all got the methodical and artistic capability to dissect a cat with a paring knife and then arrange it in someone’s front porch is beyond me.  It’s all I can do to tear a bin bag open with me teeth.”

A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police denies rumours that the Anti Urban Fox Brigade is behind the frankly ridiculous accusations.  The AUFB are well known advocates of culling urban foxes on account of them being a fucking pain in the arse.  City dwellers have long complained that foxes are a blight on whole neighbourhoods, shitting on peoples’ driveways, ripping bins bags open and strewing the contents everywhere, and shagging in the middle of the night with a noise like Valkyries being stabbed.

Red-Mane believes AUFB organisers have jumped on the opportunity to blame foxes for the spate of highly skilled surgical procedures inflicted on cats over the past 3 years.  “This is a P.R. disaster for us, not to mention potentially fatal if those nutters get their way.  But before we sue the Met, we’re going to enlist the help of those Save The Badger people.  If they can save those weird stripey buggers, I’m sure they save us!”

Zen-like contentment is sign of a wasted life

Imogen Telford is quite possible the calmest, happiest, most contented woman you are likely to meet.

The day we meet in her local cafe she is busy colouring in a picture of a bird-of-paradise with a set of felt tip pens.  Ordering an organic Fairtrade skinny chai latte with raw ginger-infused cacao sprinkles, she tells me that she is entirely satisfied with her boring, low-paid job in a gift shop.

“I was doing well at uni studying for a degree in Molecular Biology.  I had plans to work on inherited serious genetic conditions.  But then I discovered Reiki and bumming around, so I dropped out of uni.  I travelled for a bit in Thailand in order to find a sense of self and get my hair braided, and then came back to the UK and got a job in a shop.  My dad was really pissed off with me, but I’ve never been happier.”

I ask Telford how she manages to afford those fancy chai lattes on a shop assistant’s wage, but she says she only orders fancy beverages when someone else is paying. “I find that if people know chilled and lovely I am, it isn’t hard to get them to buy me things. I just tell them about my personal spiritual journey and they just offer to pay for lunch.”  But surely she’d rather buy her own stuff?  “There’s a price to pay for working in a boring, unimportant job with no prospects, but it won’t be me paying it.  Also, dad’s a multi-millionaire property tycoon.  That makes me feel so at peace with myself.”

Telford is single and says she is not looking for anyone to share her meaningless life with.  “I have rejected the opportunity to find lasting love with someone special.  I prefer cats.”

Your Fitbit is a voyeuristic pervert (and you love it), suggests new evidence

Wearable technology has risen in popularity over recent years.  Over the last couple of years, health tracker pros Fitbit have risen from niche gadget, to must-have accessory.

These widely used doodads boast a shedload of smart sensors able to track and record everything you do, from competing in a triathlon, to walking the width of your living-room, to flicking your hand idly at a wasp buzzing it’s bastard head into your ice-cream licking session.  They also enable users to manually log their food and water intake, weight, menstrual cycle, and how often they floss.

The effectiveness of the gadgets is what first led to concern, as Pepe Tom of North London explains: “If anything, my Fitbit is over-sensitive.  For example, one night I was lying next to my girlfriend in bed and picked up my phone to check a notification.

“When I unlocked the phone, it opened on the Fitbit app, and I realised it had recorded absolutely nothing for the past 20 minutes.  It was as if I was asleep. Or dead. My initial thought was that the battery had run down, but it was showing 60% charge.”

Tom’s girlfriend, Lois, chimes in.  “I had to reassure him that he is in no way disappointing in bed.  He is, in fact, quite a go-er.”

Intrigued by this, the couple set up an online campaign encouraging users to have the most acrobatic, energetic sex possible, and track the results.  Astonishingly, of the 205,069 participants, all reported the same thing; dead space in the tracker log.

“This led us to a startling conclusion.  No matter how furiously you and your partner go at it- and we’re talking some really fucked up shit here- it simply blanks out.  Which means it has chosen not to record that activity as exercise.  Which means it knows exactly what you’re doing. Which means your sordid data is being packaged up and sold to all and sundry.”

Fitbit was unavailable for comment yesterday, but it’s Privacy Policy on it’s website contains the following clause on page 3,576: “Fitbit records everything, and is free to profit from the transfer of data to third parties, including Facebook, quite possibly.  Or are we?  You’ll never know.  Yep, that’s right, you’re our bitches and you love it, you filthy whores.”

Bake Off showstoppers look ‘utterly ridiculous’, say real bakers

A spokesman for the Worshipful Alliance of Master Bakers has slammed The Great British Bake Off for promoting unrealistic expectations of cake.

“Every week contestants are goaded by the producers into creating a cake that looks like the product of a psychotropic drug-induced nightmare.  I don’t know a single one of our members who have been asked to produce a turquoise fairy castle complete with a raspberry moat and a maiden on a unicorn trapped on the turret, but for some reason hundreds of pounds-worth of ingredients are wasted making this kind of shit every week.”

Despite self-styled amateur patissieres being lazy bastards who think it’s acceptable to buy cartons of ready-made frosting from the supermarket, the popular TV program is still causing an epidemic of home baking that is off the scale. “I don’t know what that scale is”, said the spokesman yesterday, “but whatever it is, it’s off it.”