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

I blame the EU. Ursula vagina Monologues.

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.

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.

I am so tired of ignorant people like you calling us far rights, why democrats is so educated, they take things from their own mouth, you guys are totalitarian party?

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.

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.

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.

Can I have a comfortable life as a nurse in Sweden? Can I buy a house and not worry about the cost of living?

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.)

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.

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.

IBD 50's Hims & Hers Erases Its 19% Acquisition-Tied Sprint - Investor's Business Daily

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).

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.

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

What would happen if Kakashi and Naruto switched places?

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.