No Dogs Allowed

Let’s be honest, an animal death scene in a film is always more upsetting to watch than a human death scene. We watch hundreds of men fighting for their country in a war film but are more saddened to see the horse get shot. We worry more about the dog surviving to the end of the slasher film than we do about the hero who takes down the serial killer. It’s just something we do, right? Right!

Whether we’re a raging animal rights campaigner who spends our life loving all animals or are just someone who once laughed at a You’ve Been Framed clip of a cat falling into a bin, we all just feel naturally drawn to the animals inside our tellybox.

So, why do we have such a problem with the animals we come into contact with in our real life? Why do we feel unnecessarily uneasy when we see a dog wandering the streets without an owner? Especially when the dog is probably a carefree, nomad of a stray that has even less interest in harming us than we have about where it’s gonna get its next meal. Especially when we feel fine about walking past the human equivalent of this animal, even though this human could potentially do more damage to us than the dog could dream of.

I suppose it’s only natural to feel this way about an animal with all of its unpredictable ways, untold secrets & bloody scary looking teeth, but what isn’t natural is discriminating against animals. Or, as this rant is about to evolve into, discriminating against the owners of animals.

The entire world & their dog (I know, I couldn’t resist. I’m just that hilarious!) know that I am the proud Mummy of a beautiful two-and-a-half  year old puggle named Betsy Van Dam Risebury Todd. She is my everything & I wouldn’t be without her.

Betsypugglebum.

 

The entire world also knows that Betsy & I currently share our home with her Dad, my ex-fiancé who I was due to marry until I cancelled our wedding with only three months to spare. Obviously, this is wonderful for Betsy as she has the choice of two types of leftovers to polish off & two separate beds to sleep in but – despite not being as cringingly awkward a living arrangement as it actually sounds – this isn’t ideal for me or my ex.

...And so the hunt for the new home begins! At least it would if 99% of the landlords in my area weren’t so hateful towards pets living in the precious properties that have previously homed actual human people who weren’t even half as well trained (because “training” their kids is what parents do, isn’t it? I thought to) as my Betsypugglebum is.

Naturally, just like any parent would defend their miniature humans, I am bound to boast the many amazing qualities of my perfectly behaved angel of a dog to any future landlord of mine but Betsy genuinely is a very house friendly li’l lady.

 

So house friendly she even shares Mummy's bed.
Say, why am I single...?

 

Of course she was a fucking fucker when she was a pup; she’d use table legs as teething toys, she’d manicure her claws by pulling up carpets that she’d merrily pissed all over & she’d snack on the cables of any expensive household appliance she could sink her greedy puppy teeth into. But these things are to be expected & are things than can & have been overcome with time, patience, care & training. All of these things I’m proud to say I have devoted to my pooch to make her the well behaved, intelligent, socially aware & indescribably loving lump of loveliness that she is today.

Maybe “discrimination” is a bit of a strong term to use in this case, but for landlords to simply say “no pets allowed” without considering any pet owner ‘s personal situation or individual pet’s temperament first is just wrong. In fact, no, I take that back; this is discrimination! I am being discriminated against by property owners who are judging my capability as a tenant on the simple fact that I own a dog & Betsy is being discriminated against simply for being canine.

As a rule, landlords are willing to rent properties to any person who has a steady enough income to cover their rent. As long as they’re getting that money every month from somebody who can keep their house in reasonable nick, they’re fine. What they’re brushing over is what might be going on between the four walls of the house they own. Whether it’s a simple lovers’ quarrel that results in a woman accidentally smashing a rolling pin through a kitchen door because it got in the way of her hitting her man with it (hi, Mum! Yep, this happened in the rented house I grew up in) or a drug fuelled afterparty that hosted a different couple fucking in every room of the house to unsociably loud music (yep, I was at this party too in someone else’s rented home), people can do way worse in their homes than any pet ever could.

My point is that people’s personal circumstances aren’t vetted (unintentional pun that time, sorry) before a landlord decides whether or not they’re worthy of living in their property despite the fact they could cause all sorts of damage to it, unintentionally or otherwise. This is because it would be prejudice to base a business decision on a single personal factor. So why is it allowed for them to have strict no dogs or cats rules? Surely that’s as prejudice as saying no single parents? Which is something that would never happen in this “it’s political correctness gone mad” world in which we live.

It’s understandable that a landlord – particularly the landlord of a flat, which is ideally what I’m looking for – might not want a disruptively noisy dog in their property, howling when it’s left alone or barking when a lorry drives past etc, but who’s to say a person won’t pollute the neighbourhood just as much when they sing in the bath or scream down the phone at cold callers? And regardless of how loud a dog may or may not bark, they never have the option of inviting their friends round for a few bottles of Lambrini & noisy, drunken karaoke parties like humans do.

She enjoys a drink but nothing stronger than Diet Pepsi.
And even then she takes it to the recycling bin.

 

As it happens, I’m a very boring creature who never even has a friend stay over, let alone have any overnight gentleman callers or any drug fuelled sex parties that could cause damage to a house I might rent, but how is a landlord to know this? I could be the feminine embodiment of destruction itself for all they knew &, providing I paid my rent on time every month, they would be happy to let me make my home in their property. But because I have a dog? Jog on, woman!

My dog is my pride & joy & it’s wonderful to hear as many stressed out Mums on the school run telling their overexcited kids they should be as well behaved as “that dog”, who just sits patiently at the curbside while cars pass before she crosses the road to the park. But because she’s an animal, she’s obviously going to obliterate any building she’s left alone in because that’s obviously what all animals do. Obviously.

"Share" is a dirty word, but a Mummy do anything for her pugglebum.

 

It’s easy for outsiders to suggest I “get rid” or Betsy or leave her to live with her Dad but neither of these are an option & if you think they are, I wish for you to go choke on your own cock. Firstly, don’t think it’s that easy to just  “get rid” of what is essentially your child just because you want to move home &, secondly, him & me have both discussed “custody” & unanimously decided it’s for the best for her to stay with me. He still wants “access” & can come see her or take her out whenever he likes because that’s what she’d like too, but he knows that Betsy is ultimately my baby & would prefer to be with her Mummy as it’s me who she chooses to spend most of her time with at present. So, please, shush!

So far on my hunt for a new home – a one bed flat in Goole, if anyone knows of any, by the way! – I have found it damn near impossible to find something that is both affordable and pet friendly. If it’s affordable, they don’t allow dogs. If they allow dogs, they demand a massive bond upfront (as in, a normal bond plus a £100 per animal “pet bond” plus a month’s rent!). At this rate, I’ll be homeless once Betsy’s Dad has found his own new home to move into but I’d sooner be without a home than without my puggle.

Landlords of the East Riding, please stop being cunts & lift your discriminating rules on bringing pets into your properties in case they cause damage; assess every pet & pet owner individually before putting your blanket ban on ever letting any of them set up home in your house.

Or, if you insist on being a narrow-minded set of animal hating pricks, at least be man enough to let your human prejudices shine through in your money making property renting ventures too; no gays, no fatties, nobody with a tribal tattoo, nobody who claims they’re a “cupcake maker” because they once baked a friend a birthday cake, no Man Utd fans.

Or, y’know, just let pet owners give you money every month to set up home in & look after your currently empty properties that are currently not making you any money but are instead currently nothing more than squatter’s potential dens of iniquity. That would be the logical thing to do, really.

Looking into the future, contemplating our impending homelessness...

Bollocks to the Other 49 Shades of Grey

In my negative li’l life, I am forever being told off for being such a pessimist. I always choose not to look on the bright side of life so I won’t be disappointed if the worst case scenario is to arise. But it’s the secret optimist within me who chooses to live like this because if the worst does happen, I’m allowed myself a happily smug “I told you so” moment. I live for that grey area of Optimistic Pessimism ("hey, isn't that the name of your blog, Whoopass?". Why yes, yes it is).

My one true talent is being able to make a negative out of a positive. If somebody tells me I’m funny, I immediately think funny strange, not funny humorous. However, I have always been able to turn this skill upside down & find a positive in every negative. That drunk in the corner of the pub who pisses himself might be such a tragedy that he does this to himself every day, but even with that stench he is still the heart & soul of the pub & everybody knows him. He too is that grey area of Optimistic Pessimism.

Not everything is always as black & white as being negative or positive & I take great pleasure in paddling around in the grey. It’s for this reason that I personally am not entirely offended by comments such as “your intelligence is very sexy” (yes, I’ve had this!), & neither should you be.

To many, this type of back-handed compliment could be offensive. Ignoring every aspect of a person’s appearance to focus on a quirk of their personality could seem a bit... Well, we’ve all been told that if we can’t say anything nice, we shouldn’t say anything at all, right? Right! And completely bypassing somebody’s looks may well feel to them that this is exactly what you’re doing.

To some, however, these remarks couldn’t be further from insulting. Sure, it’s always nice to be complimented on your eyes/smile/face/boobs/bum/legs/figure/physique/part of body or face that every other human being has, but comments made on your personality – i.e. something one-of-a-kind that only you have – mean so much more as they’re more personal & instantly seem more genuine.

During my school years (& before I became The One with the Piercings or The One Who Gets Her Norks Out), I was The One with the Sense of Humour. I was always friends with the boys but never had a boyfriend. I was outspoken, hard to embarrass, had a mouth like a hairy arsed docker & was far too often “one of the lads”, which was lots of fun but when you’re 15 & feel like you’re going to die a virgin because no boy will ever look at you like that, it’s pretty miserable. I mean, you can’t shag witty quips however euphemistic the term “witty quips” might sound!

All I wanted to be was The One with The Killer Figure or The One Everyone Wants to Bang. I saw the way I wanted to be as the white & the way I actually was as the black. Black & white. Wrong & right.

It’s taken me many years to accept this – and I wish I could’ve done this back then to have been a “happy” teenager (!?) – but, really, this worked out for the best. Granted, it might have given me *ahem* slight body image issues but I am only human, after all. The important part is that these things have taught me how to be realistic & not beat myself up about negative comments or become arrogant because of positive ones, but just to accept the grey.

That killer figure I wanted? That would’ve just disappeared when I became a student anyway & lived on ready meals & cheap bottles of plonk. And being the school bike? That was sure to have ended in Chlamydia. But that gob I was known for? That has & will always be mine; it will never be anyone else’s. It might not always be the best or worst but it’s my own & it’s what others know/like/recognise me for.

Sometimes it’s easier said than done to think in this way & the “if only I’d have known this then” hindsight gubbins is a fucking fucker, but wouldn’t it be nice if we were all able to think like this more often? To not instantly sulk over the darkness of these back-handed compliments or even celebrate the swollen heads they may bring on, but to just accept that proud shade of grey that is simply us.

Back-handed compliments are more often than not just observations that are meant neither positively nor negatively, so just accept them. Grey is the new the new black & it’d be wonderful if the whole world could wear it as fabulously as I do, dahlink.

...And before we start thinking that I, Akannah Whoopass: Moany Queen of the “The Diet Starts Tomorrow” Rant, have seen the light & accepted my physical flaws into that grey area, we can think again.

I might be happy in my own head but I’m still not happy in my own skin. But isn’t this just normal? We all have demons to sleigh in that department, even if they’re invisible to others. And if we don’t? Well, if you’re one of those fortunate (fictional?) people who are perfect (arrogant?) enough to be completely happy in your appearance, you probably have that weird bigger-than-your-big-toe toe thing going on in the privacy of your shoes. Or you have Daddy issues. Or you’re just a birrova twat.

 

 

 

"Do You Have a Nectar Card?"

Anyone who knows me will know that I am one of life’s moaners. I live to love but I love to whinge & not a day goes by when I don’t have a rant about something trivial that mostly leaves those around me shaking their heads in that all too familiar “here she goes again” way.

Today, that trivial thing that caused me to throw my toys out of the otherwise not-too-sulky pram that is my workplace is the loyalty card. Yes. The loyalty card. See, I can see you shaking your head & rolling your eyes at me already!

A loyalty card is a pretty piece of brightly coloured plastic that lives inside your wallet to offer you freebies, vouchers, discounts & bargains in return for your loyalty to a particular shop, all while making the working lives of innocent sales assistants absolute hell.

I work in a BP garage that offers Nectar loyalty points with every transaction, meaning that – as part of my job – I must ask every customer if they have a Nectar card. It’s a simple enough concept that you would assume could only end in one of two ways; 1) a customer hands over their card, collects the points they have earned then leaves the forecourt, or 2) a customer doesn’t collect Nectar points, declines the sales assistant in a civil & polite manner then leaves the forecourt. Well, you would assume wrong.

On a good day, the answers to my very simple “do you have a Nectar card?” range from the rantings of an old dear about how the country is on its arse because of people relying on these cards, to a southern lorry driver laughing at the way my Yorkshire accent elongates the vowel sound in “caaaard”.

On a bad day, I get blamed for hounding customers with my “forceful” sales technique (y'know, asking a question!) & getting accused of being “as bad as them” because Nectar cards are apparently used to allow “them” to keep tabs on everyone in this Big Brother society.

Whatever the reaction, I simply have to wear my false smile, bite my tongue & bid them farewell because that is my job. My job! I don’t choose to say “thank you, have a nice day” over “fuck the fuck out of my fucking shop, you fucking fucker” (which I would clearly much prefer to say!), nor do I choose to bring up the whole Nectar card saga to them in the first place. These things are just a part of the job that I get paid to do.

Similarly, when the till decides to get its generous head on, I don’t choose who is given a double points voucher. If computer says yes, computer says yes & it’s merely my job to agree with it & pass on to the customer the positivity that it has randomly selected to spit out at. In the same way that I don’t deserve the verbal abuse, I don’t deserve thanking for these things either. All I deserve is my pay packet at the end of the month because that is the only reason I do my job.

Many of you are now sighing loudly at the pointlessness of this moan but, trust me, your dramatic sighs have been drowned out by the agreement of sales assistants everywhere who have to deal with this nonsense on a daily basis while all they’re trying to do is earn a living.

Whether we work at Tesco & offer Clubcard points, Boots offering Advantage points or a humble coffee shop offering loyalty stamps for a free cuppa, we are only doing it because we are told to. We don’t pick on the individual for personal reasons, we just offer them to everyone as that is what is asked of us from the all important wage payers in the office. And, if it’s any comfort to you, we hate having to repeat the same question hundreds of times each shift even more than you hate being asked it once every few days.

Next time you’re in a shop & the sales assistant behind the counter politely asks if you have a loyalty card, please remember that they haven’t chosen you specifically & either give them your card or tell them you don’t have one. They are only doing their job. And they probably think you’re a twat who doesn’t deserve loyalty points anyway, because most of you rarely say “please” or “thank you”.