grumpyf1

A Renault Kadjar (Weaponry is an optional extra) A while ago, one of those letters dropped through my letterbox that really helps to instil a sense of trust between you and your car manufacturer. In this instance the letter was from Renault, maker of my humble Twingo. The missive was a safety recall. Apparently, the bonnet and rear wing (if you’re thinking Formula 1 technology, you’re sorely mistaken) had potentially not been bonded correctly. Right – that’s probably not good is it? And they may fall apart whilst you’re driving, putting yourself and other road users at risk. Seriously not good, then. So a few weeks later, during which nothing detached itself in a dangerous fashion from my car, I rolled up at the garage to have my tiny chariot glued back together. Properly. Not with a Pritt Stick or whatever they used first time around. On presenting myself to the service receptionist, she cheerfully told me my courtesy car was just outside - “The black one”. I could see a s

It was always tricky to fit everything you wanted into the intentionally short character count of Twitter, especially when, like me, you tend to write ridiculously long sentences that keep going on and on, with no discernible end in sight, until you start wondering what the point was in the first place. The maximum length of a text message originally limited a tweet to 140 characters, due to it being a common way to post your ramblings in Twitter’s early days. Ten years later, we’ve largely consigned texting to the tech dustbin, and after a lot of angst, the social media platform’s bigwigs have finally opted to double your ranting capacity to 280. Responses ranged from “You’ve ruined it! Closing my account!” to the far more common “Meh” of modern disinterest. As someone rightly pointed out, just because you have twice as much capacity doesn’t mean you actually have to use it. It is, of course, and excellent opportunity to use the English language correctly and include punctuat

Lewis and his jet. (VAT not pictured.) Mired in an unpleasant and seedy world of harassment accusations and casting couch impropriety, some of the rich and famous elite needed something to take them off the front pages. Lo and behold it happened this week, but only by turning a spotlight on some of the rich and famous elite’s financial sleight-of-hand and unscrupulous practices. The leaking this week of a veritable mother-load of financial document relating to everyone from senior royals to the stars of Mrs Brown’s Boys (as if they hadn’t already done enough bad things) provided some entertainment, for me at least. People with oodles of money being made to feel bad about their dodgy tax-avoidance shenanigans? Grand. Unfortunately, they’ve still got lots of dosh in the bank (wherever it may be), so I doubt they’re too traumatised. We have a notoriously short attention span nowadays, so we will probably have forgotten all about... the thing... sorry, what were we talking abou

It’s been an interesting week of experiences, good and bad... but some of them less obviously one or the other. Allow me to explain. First of all, there’s an obvious one which was not only good, but simply joyous. Whilst dropping Mrs G off at the station early one morning, a tiny wren landed on the wing mirror of our car, sat motionless for a few moments, then flitted away. Wonderful. By the same logic, seeing someone damage their car five minutes later at the petrol station should be categorised as bad. However, this was a souped-up VW, with tinted windows, ridiculous spoiler, massive shiny chrome exhaust tailpipe and a spiky haired surly lad behind the wheel, who pulled into a parking space as I was leaving the shop. Unfortunately for the young driver (and presumably his ego), he apparently forgot the ground-skimmingly low front spoiler as he pulled up to the kerb. A kerb that was several inches higher. The loud bang/crunch noise was a delight. I believe the Germans have a wo