J.K. Rowling said that 65% of people in Britain are transgender. Where did she come up with that statistic?

An interlude here, methinks. RAILWAY station. Railway. Railway. Railway. It is not a train station. I don’t care what you think. Yes, it is a place where trains become stationary for a while. But whilst the trains become stationary they are doing it on the rails of the railway, unless of course something horrible has happened. Therefore it is a railway station. And yes I further know we have bus stations. That is because bus stations are, observation proves, populated quite often in the evenings by semi-literate winos who do not know any better. Railway stations they are then. And if I hear you say “Railroad station” I will assume that you are in fact a victim of American television programmes and will treat you as a babbling cretin, unless you are an American, in which case I will display sympathy because really you’ve suffered enough in life already. If you say “gare” of course I will assume that the baguettes and garlic have addled your brains, and if it’s Bahnhof I will inform you that the Spar next to the station do a nice wurst but you might be struggling to find sauerkraut. And that your chocolate is strange and disturbing, so try a Mars Bar, do.

One of those two things isn’t the doors. Those glassy twats don’t stop the pigeons coming in. They aren’t going to stop anybody in a big ’n’ yellow Komatsu. The first problem is the stairs. Unless you only want to go to platform one, you’ve got to tackle the stairs up and the stairs down again to all the other platforms (bulldozers are a bit too big to get in the lifts). You’d have to be very good at driving your bulldozer not to topple it over, and there’s the weight issue; not being a civil engineer I can’t be absolutely sure about this but a back-of-the-fag-packet calculation suggests that those stairs won’t take the weight. The other thing is the policemen and women that are all over the place on a Saturday. There’s a contingent of British Transport Plods there all the time, since they’ve got a lair there, and if you hang about long enough you will see at least one person get a wigging or nicked for egregious mischief (which is fair enough, if you are stupid enough to indulge in egregious mischief under the very noses of the hordes of Plods then you are in fact a wee bit thick, and deserve it, and next time you’ll go somewhere they can’t see, won’t you?) but Sheffield has things other than a quite big railway station.

So anyway, the wizard-woman. Don’t think she did. Not unless she’s gone potty……

Why are men ridiculously delusional in the women they want/approach? I'm not a troll. This is a real question. Why does a fat, pot bellied, unkempt, balding, stupid (ergo poor) man, tell a woman above his league that she isn't hot enough for him?

Anyway, the germane point. The germane point to Sheffield having things other than a quite big railway (not train) station, that is, rather than the question, because by my rough count we are now about six hundred words into this and I’ve barely made a scratch on the question yet and I intend to drivel on like this for ages yet. Patience is a virtue. But then, according to the Romans, so was gravitas, and there’s precious little of that in this answer, so meh.

Last night was Saturday and I had the misfortune to have to go to work, because we haven’t all got nice little Monday-to-Friday here’s a wad of bunce for doing bugger all jobs, thank you, and on Saturday evenings Sheffield station gets peopley. If, like me, you have a vague contempt for humanity in general, it gets too peopley. If you get the feeling that the peopliness is so much that you’d prefer not to walk through Sheffield Station, then hard lines, because there are two things that will stop you.

There is generally speaking no difficulty telling amongst the several thousand hedonists that swarm the place at about half past six which are bintybirds and which are blokes. In the case of some of the bintybirds it is glaringly obvious that things are au naturel, as it were. And in one very special case where she fell over on her high heels, I, the taxi drivers, and the general public for twenty feet about were left in no doubt whatsoever.

What are some effective ways to cope with loss and grief?

I blame the EU. Ursula vagina Monologues.

I doubt she did, because that would mean that out of every three people on Sheffield railway station two of them will either be a BIF (blokes in frocks) or a BIB (bints imitating blokes).

Y’know how I said that the yelly sphere-abuse enthusiasts tend to bugger off late afternoon? Well, you get this point between about six and seven when the hedonists that like to partake of the grain and the grape start to make ingress whilst the yelly orb-bashers make egress. The hedonists like to dress in all the greatest finery Primark can provide (Sheffield Primark is huge; no, really, if there is a bigger Primark anywhere it’s probably been built in an old factory in which they used to make aeroplanes and there’s one at Meadowhall which is only slightly smaller.)

What celebrity do you admire the most?

Any road up to either the red or blue stripy people’s bit of grass, lots of people on Saturday pay an absolute fortune to watch either the red or blue stripy-shirted people kick their spheres. No really. The cost of a ticket to watch red or blue stripies kicking the sphere for ninety minutes is more than that to go and watch The Vagina Monologues for the same time, and in the latter they don’t even do a half-time where you can go and buy a pie.

Any road up, between the Transport and the South Yorkshire Plods, your chances of getting a bulldozer anywhere near bloody Burger King are remote on a Saturday afternoon. They’re on your case if you ride an electric scooter through the crowd. Your bloody Komatsu isn’t getting off Sheaf Square. Which brings me back to the BIFs and BIBs thing, for those of you who were wondering. It’s only taken about 1400 words.

Right. Sheffield. I know that you denizens of Nancyshire think that anywhere oop north is a wasteland where the only thing you’ll find is inbred cannibals leading whippets on a string but it’s not really like that. Well, there is a certain part of Barnsley that may be like that, yes, but it’s only a small enclave and easily avoidable, and the denizens appear only in daylight and don’t like to be more than a hundred feet from their off-licence, so no. Sheffield has lots of things. One of its universities is a Russell Group one (ooh, la-de-dah!). The other is what used to be the Poly but there we are, can’t win ’em all. Sheffield’s got museums by the bucketful. And a big art gallery. No, really. It’s where the library is. I once took the kid in there to get some culture other than that of Nintendo. There was a video of a Japanese bint poking a box in there. She really liked that box. She poked it here, she poked it there, she poked it every-bloody-where. The actual box she poked was in the middle of the floor. With a sign next to it saying “do not touch”. We assumed she couldn’t read English, then. Theatres? Got ’em in buckets. Currently if you want to you can go and watch The Vagina Monologues being done not only in spoken English but also in sign language for the deaf. If you want to, that is; I think I’ll just crank up Netflix and look at Deep Space Nine instead, thanks. There’s the Tree Place, the exhibition of Spoons (there’s knives and forks and scissors too but mainly spoons, so many spoons) that the SBT is obsessed with, and a dining quarter in which if I’m sure you looked far enough you’d find something where they serve the cuisine of the North Sentinel Islanders, and more Greggs shops than you can shake a sausage roll at (always a sign of civilisation). It’s also got football. Two of them. One of them goes up and down an oblong of grass wearing red stripy shirts, and the other goes up and down a different oblong of grass wearing blue stripy shirts. Unless they are pitted against each other in their sphere-abuse, in which case they run up and down the same oblong of grass, in different directions. In each case there is a sphere (as I have mentioned) involved which they have to kick, but I don’t know why. Like the certain area of Barnsley to which I have previously alluded, that is a culture I take pains from which to distance myself. Perhaps they just like kicking spheres.

Hi everybody! I have been looking at posts on narcs and narc abuse on here and if has really helped me out a lot. I am currently struggling with my situation and need some advice/support. I met a narc last year, everything seemed to good to be true. Love bombing, always texting calling and taking me on dates. Everything changed when someone warned me about him out in public in front of him and who he is. This caused a conflict with us and the love bombing seized. he would tell me that everything is okay and i can come and talk. He would set a time limit on me and kick me out after that. he would then text me like everything was fine and we hung out again and after that he completely ghosted me for one week. He came back and texted me a week later laughing about the ghosting and acting like nothing had happened. he continued to text me ( not like in the beginning) make plans with me, then on the day of the plans he would just ghost me. One day he would act interested the next silence. i contacted him a month later and he acted like nothing happened. He was on a vacation and sent me a picture of another woman ( someone he allegedly met on the trip) to strike a reaction but i never gave him one. After the trip he came to my place and was extremely rude, accusing me of going on dates with a bunch of men. The next day he accused me of being an alcoholic and that he wanted nothing to do with me but said well maybe we can be "friends" then ghosted me i assumed at this point it was over and i would never hear from him again. He contacted me on the holiday a month later acting like everything was great. We ended up hanging out a month or so later and when we hung out it went well, i thought things were going in the right direction. after we hung out.. silence. I would try to text him and if he replied it would be very short then he just stopped replying. He ghosted me for almost three months. I thought he was done this time and of course he popped up again like nothing happened. At this point i was getting sick of if so i questioned him as to why he dissapeared and always does this. Of course he had some sob story about a injury and family member dying of cancer. I felt pity for him and he gave me an apology.. so i took him back stupidly. things seemed to be going smooth for a couple months, of course until his family member died and his injury got better he never contacted me and was distant. Menawhile, i was there for him during the difficult time for him. He lied to me about the funeral and never wanted to chat. I was chasing him and he would always claim nothing was wrong but when i said i thought he used me when he was down he could not handle it and would always tell me he didnt care and to go away. I would get so upset i would try texting him to work it out he would barelt respond and if he did he would not be nice about it. we did hang out a couple times after that, he would ignore me after. One day i was like hey i think you are seeing someone else, and i was like well ixam seeing someone so no problem if you are he said " buy bye good luck with your new guy stop contacting me" i was devastated and tried to get into contact with him for weeks then i just gave up and accepted it was over. He ended up contacting me a month later acting like everything was fine. He wanted to go out and have drinks i told him i would. He and i both seemed to have a great time. He ends up ignoring me again. I kept texting him trying to figure out what was wrong. He kept saying everything was fine and i said ok can we hang out again? He said maybe i was like why? He just kept saying maybe … our last conversation we had… i said what is wrong ? He said nothing is wrong everything is fine. I asked him why he keeps saying maybe. He said " maybe but i dont want to see you right now" i said why? He saix " im just not feeling it, if i wanted to date i would" i said why did you contact me less then a week ago wanting to go out? He said i didnt.. even though he did. So i said should i just move on or what? He said whatever you want to do. So i said that he was really confusing me and asked him if he had anything more to say before i move on? My messages were turning green so i panicked he blocked me and reacted irrationally. I said " omg did you block me? My messages are not going through. Even texted him on my work phone asking what was up. And called him twice ( please dont judge me i know it is pathetic i never was this type of girl before him) so he replied and said " Ok I'll block you now" then immedietly blocked me. He has never blocked me before since I have met him he will just ghost. Is this ths final discard aka " grand finale? Did i just push him too far? this has upset me so much its hard to even function.

The red stripies and the blue stripies have a definite effect on Sheffield railway (not train) station on Saturdays, because although the British Transport Plods are still there, there are not nearly enough of them to deal with those who like to spectate cruelty to spheres, and those latter tend to get very yelly indeed. They start to yell at about ten in the morning, and stumble off to wherever they may have come from later in the evening, usually off their tits on the wares of the local hostelries. Which of course necessitates the drafting in of what seems like every member of South Yorkshire Constabulary to assist the British Transport Plods in their stopping of egregious mischief. Some are often on horses. I once saw what I thought was a troop of dragoons on Sheaf Street at the canter, but it turned out to be EquestriPlod obequitating their way to form a barrier at the end of the square. They were big horses, too, and a couple were being ridden by big women. You wouldn’t want one of those swimming up your arse, let me tell you.