Prick of the Week: Tingle

Look at him. Fucking paedo.

If you've never played any of Nintendo's 'Legend of Zelda' series this will all be meaningless to you... not that I've ever let a little thing like a complete lack of interest on the part of the reader put me off. If 'I Hate It Here' were a movie it would be the venerable Spielberg flick 'Duel', where a frightened, innocent man (you) is remorselessly pursued by a shadowy, relentless juggernaut (in this case a juggernaut of pointless waffle concerning video-games, annoying customers and stuff about the West Midlands).

I will not be stopped.

Anyway, Tingle is a minor character in LOZ; he's a middle-aged man in a fairy suit who loiters around Hyrule and attempts to coerce the (10 year old) Link into doing his weird bidding - this usually involves bringing him special items in order to gain his favour, the perv. He's a basically a fantasy world paedophile. There, I've said it; Nintendo can sue me if they want. Tingle likes touching little boys. He's the Hyrulian Gary Glitter, and a very annoying one at that. And OK, I'm ripping into a fictional character from a children's videogame, which probably makes me even more tragic than previously suspected. I get that. But he's the asshole, not me. Still, at least he's not real, eh?

Run, children! Run like the wind!

Mighty fuck!

Prick of the Week: The General Public.

All these people are probably dead now. And I'm glad.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Once, not so long ago, I was all fired up about the injustices inflicted on innocent consumers by the heartless company I'm currently employed by. Three weeks of actually dealing with the bastards, three weeks of getting my ear chewed off daily by assholes, now has me singing a different song. These days each and every customer can fuck off, die, come back, contract AIDS and die again as far as I'm concerned.

Customer service jobs are always going to involve dealing with obstreperous wankers but the asshole ratio at this particular job is frighteningly high. Most of them have been dicked about quite badly for a very long time indeed, so I can see that they might need to let off some steam but come on, people; I'm only doing my job. There's no need to call me what you just called me, especially since I'm not allowed to say anything back. I have at least three people every day threatening to sick Watchdog on us, which I actually wouldn't mind as I've always wanted to be on the telly and the X Factor thing never really panned out for me. See for yourself.



One of their favourite tactics is to say, in a tone more hurt than angry: 'You just don't care, do you? You've had our money and now you don't care.'

No. No I don't.

Prick of the Week - Special Update.

Get in the van, you workshy cunt.

Nothing against Pat himself - this is general cussing of all the posties in Britain who have felt it necessary to down tools for a whole fuckin' week, thus depriving me of the Deadwood series 3 box set I ordered off Amazon. I've been jiggling from one foot to the other like a child trying to hold in a wee for what seems like forever, such is the terrifying force of the Deadwood craving that has taken me over. And that's just my own personal tale of woe; this special Prick of the Week is for every delayed passport application, every late credit card payment, every vital-but-absent benefit cheque, every office and every business and every birthday that has passed with no cards whatever. Posties and Royal Mail bigwigs, please, on behalf of the people of Britain, I beg of you; work your problems the fuck out. Why can't we all just be friends?

Prick of the Week: Philip Solomon

Phil, the seventies called - they want their hair back. Zing!

Most of you won't know who this guy is, so let me enlighten you. His name is Philip Solomon and he's a noted West Midlands psychic; so noted, in fact, that he gets his own column in the Express and Star, the local Black Country rag. It's a pseudo agony uncle bit where needy yet gullible people write in asking whether their dead relatives are enjoying the good afterlife over there on the other side; Phil here claims that he's in touch with these deceased folks and that - yes, you guessed it - they're fine, dandy and having a fine old time themselves up there in the ether. Who'd have thunk it? Here's a sample; I've edited it down for brevity's sake.

Dear Philip, last year I lost my mother-in-law and then my mother a few weeks apart... This year I have been diagnosed with an illness but I would like to think that my mum and mother-in-law are watching over me. Elaine, Netherton.

Hi Elaine, I am inspired to say that your two special ladies are of course watching over you...I feel you often speak to photos and make no mistake, the words you speak are always heard, especially by these two people who have helped you so much. The names of Ann, Sheila, John, David, Peter, Jack, Stan, Lily and Mary or Marianne may be of significance to you. Be assured you will be joyfully reunited with those you love one day. Kind regards, Philip.

Look, I don't know whether there's an afterlife or not. I cannot say for a mortal (hah) certainty that this person's dead relatives aren't watching over them with concern and approval; my gut instinct says no, but I'm happy to be proved wrong. Really. In the video on this page I unearthed Phil claims that Spiritualism is a scientifically proven fact - if that's so then I want to see this proof. That's right Phil, I'm calling you out. Me versus you; let's go.

Claiming to have powers that you don't really have is wrong. Preying on the misery and weakness of other people is wrong. Life is hard enough without lying shysters using your personal trauma to make a quick buck; really I'm pissed off with the paper for giving this fucknut print space, but bullshit psychics in general also get my back up. I'm conscious of the fact that I should be cracking a few jokes at this point but honestly... I just don't feel like it. Phil, and people like him, depress me too much. And that's why he's my Prick of the week.