Whilst shopping in Oxford Street today for a jacket, I walked into a clothes store that DIDN’T send the men to another floor.
No, this store actually put us men first. Can you believe it?
My favourite part of the store was the sign saying the women’s department was downstairs.
Cunningly amusing play on words, or unbelievably funny fuck up?
You decide.
As I settle down in my train seat, ready for the five and a half hour journey from Penzance to London, imagine my joy when a chavvy couple with the loudest and whiniest kids in the world sit 3 rows in front of me.
I’m such a fucking lucky bastard, I really am.
He resembles a shaved rat in a bomber jacket and baseball cap, complete with a neck tattoo and an eyebrow piercing. A gold ring of course.
She has lank, greasy hair pulled back so tight she looks like she’s suddenly sat on a upturned plug…all the time. Her clothing is way too tight for her ‘size’ which means her leggings elastic and struggling bra strap leave her resembling 3 bagels stacked on top of each other…. or are they ring doughnuts?
Probably doughnuts.
And what’s with the decibel levels here? Do they live next to a runway? Are they used to communicating through glass? The kids are very loud (and did I mention whiny?),the dad (debatable) is loud, but the mum…well, she’s talking to ratman at the same volume we reserve for nightclubs, complete with the occasional spit missiles associated with talking at such force. The windows are actually shaking and I swear I just spotted a crack appear.
The old couple next to me have turned their hearing aids OFF.
I’ve tried to drown them out with my headphones, but they keep slipping out of my bleeding ears.
Have you ever overheard someone being asked a question and wished you’d been able to answer it instead?
In The Sail Loft cafe at St. Michael’s Mount, Cornwall, I heard….
Customer – “Excuse me, do you do takeaway coffee?”
Girl in cafe – “Im sorry, no we don’t; we’re not set up for it. There is a cafe on the other side that might”
Customer – “Ok, thank you”
What I would love to have heard was…
Customer – “Excuse me, do you do takeaway coffee?”
Girl in cafe – “You can try but we’ll probably rugby tackle you to the ground”
Customer – “I’m sorry, what??”
Now wouldn’t that have been more amusing? I could’ve written a blog entry about it and everything.
I’m a gamer. And as a gamer there are moments that are a little unnerving.
For example, I’m currently playing Fallout New Vegas and I’m about to enter a huge abandoned facility that is rumoured to be overrun with radiation infested zombies similar to those in ‘I Am Legend’.
Outside the facility I find a campsite with boxes of ammunition, guns and medication. Loads of it.
That’s never a good sign.
The only thing missing is my mum…which I really could do with right now.
(gulp)
Wish me luck. I’m going in.
The guy next to me on the train right now smells like shit.
And that’s not in the context of smelling generally bad; he actually smells like actual shit, actually.
I’m starting to suspect it’s not a fresh deposit, but instead has been maturing in his pants for most of the afternoon.
Luckily he’s ready a newspaper that wafts it my way with every page turn.
So that’s nice.
Every morning when I get to the train station, I walk past the single ticket office to join the platform.
Every morning there’s a bloke standing by the ticket office chatting to the occupant behind the glass.
It’s clear they’re mates.
For context I need to explain that the guy in the ticket office is massive. I mean huge. He basically resembles a professional darts player, complete with a full on cockneyed ‘saaf Lahndan’ accent. His mate can simply be described as Ray Winstone, although he’s not.
Every morning when I walk by I catch a snippet of their conversation and it usually involves “some fucking muppet” or how the country’s going to shit. They basically put the world to rights like a couple of builders over a pint.
This morning as I approached, I noticed they were joined by a woman; a really ‘classy’ older bird with massive hoops in her ears and far too many rings. It was apparent that Ray had said something contentious as both the woman and the behemoth behind the glass were clearly not happy.
I wonder what it is today? Is it the local council? Is it the fact that today is Margaret Thatcher’s state funeral?
Nope.
As I got closer I heard something come out of the Winstone wannabe’s mouth that I didn’t expect.
He said, “yeah, they changed the animators”
What? I’m sorry, what did he just….what?
I slowed down for this one.
“Really?” said the stunned woman, as Shrek in his oversized uniform looked on with contempt, “Tom and Jerry?”
“It’s fucking disgusting. Is nuffink sacred?” said the fat controller.
“I know mate, I know”, said Ray.
I kept walking.
I’m sitting in a hotel bar right now waiting for some food I’ve ordered.
But in a place like this it’s never just food is it… no, it’s pompous wanky food with unnecessarily long and tedious descriptions.
It’s places like this that have words like compote, medley and terrine on the menu. Even the scrambled egg on toast sounded so exquisite I wanted to have sex with it.
Is this to somehow justify the inflated prices?
Would I pay £10 for a prawn cocktail?
No.
Would I pay it for saltwater Alaskan shrimp on a bed of distressed iceberg shavings, drizzled with creamy homemade Marie Rose dressing and a tickle of paprika, complimented with hand cut toasted wheatbread laced with Devon churned butter?
Fuck yeah! Here are the deeds to my house, just feed me this extravagance!
Oh, wait, it’s just prawn cocktail.
And it doesn’t end with their choice of words. Everything is delivered on a tray. Even my diet coke was delivered on a tray, complete with a posh stirrer.
Why? Is it so I can mix my diet coke with the rest of the diet coke in my glass?
I perused this minefield of Shakespearean verse called a menu and eventually decided to go for the ‘free range slivers of extra matured….’ Oh for fuck’s sake, I went for a ham sandwich.
Now, in my experience a ham sandwich is bread, butter, ham, possibly mustard and then bread. It is basically ham ‘sandwiched’ between two slices of bread. So why am I still waiting for it an hour later?
If the pig has been hand reared as a result of my order, the cows milked and the butter churned, the mustard seeds grown fresh, and the bread baked specially…then it makes sense I’d have to wait. But I suspect they’ve run out of trays in the kitchen and don’t know how to deliver my food to me any other way.
Frankly, I’m so hungry right now you could deliver it with a crossbow and I’d be happy. In pain, but happy.
Interestingly, I’ve just had a second diet coke brought to my table (on a tray, naturally) and I find myself a little disappointed it has no stirrer. If you set the bar too high, you’ll inevitably disappoint.
My sandwich finally arrives an hour and twenty minutes after I ordered it, but at least it’s a special sandwich with…. ….oh wait, no, it’s just a ham sandwich.
But it isn’t; not really. It’s three quarters of a ham sandwich. They’ve clearly managed to figure out the bread-ham-bread thing and then understandably cut it into quarters, only to give me three of them.
Where’s my quarter of a sandwich? Did you fucking eat 25% of my dinner you bastards?
It then occurred to me that maybe they give everyone 3 out of the 4 quarters of the sandwich to save money. They could effectively create a fourth ‘three quarter sandwich’ for free, provided they have three customers who order them. I bet that’s why I was left waiting for 100 fucking minutes for a fucking sandwich because these bastards were waiting for two more fucking guests to order ham fucking sandwiches.
It all makes sense now.
To add insult to injury, they’ve provided me with an unwanted handful of cress and a ramekin of crisps. A bloody ramekin of crisps! Do you realise how few crisps you can fit in a ramekin??
I didn’t even want these 7 crisps; I wanted my whole sandwich!
For what it’s worth, the sandwich is delicious, dammit.
Traversing the concourse at London Victoria station is challenging at the best of times, with people erratically crisscrossing in front of you at breakneck speed; most of whom not having the slightest clue where they’re going… but desperately trying to get in front of you to get there nonetheless.
On occasion these cretinous comets have a tail that leaves a wake of devastation behind them in the form of a fart. The sort of fart that is the result of a poorly chosen lunch with the nutritional value of a carpet sample.
All because “fuck it, it’s Friday. I’ll have another pint of bitter”.
For those of you who have seen Tron, I want you to recall the lightcycles and the wall they leave behind them. Walking into these farts have a remarkably similar effect.
Stops you dead.
Small kids don’t stand a chance.
And why can I now taste it?
I was talking to one of the guys at work this morning about music. I told him I was currently listening to Alanis Morissette’s ‘Jagged Little Pill’ album. This resulted in an awkward pause in the conversation, followed by a look from him that implied I’d grown a vagina.
“Really?” he said.
“Of course” I replied, “It has to rate up there as one of the top 10 albums of all time”
“Hmm, I only know that one song of hers” he continued.
“Which one’s that?”
“That one that made her famous”
Well, at least he wasn’t being vague.
I then proceeded to hum a few tunes from the album, all of which resulted in a “oh, I know that one!”
10 seconds later Alanis Morissette came on the radio.
Isn’t that Ironic, don’t you think?
Following my recent entry about the correct way to make tea…
https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/03/28/fancy-a-cuppa/
…I’ve since been drawn into the great instant coffee debate.
In my Oscar winning portrayal of a person who gives a shit, I pretended to listen to the same tedious issue of whether you put the milk in first, or the water.
Frankly, I opt for the coffee, but hey….I don’t want to appear picky.
Preparing a mug of instant coffee is even easier than tea. The word ‘instant’ is a bit of a clue.
Repeat after me….
Spoon the coffee into a mug
Add the hot water and stir
Add milk and sugar/sweeteners to taste.
It makes my brain hurt to think that some people still can’t get this right. It surprises me that they’re able to dress themselves in the morning or brush their teeth properly. Most of them have toothpaste in their hair.
These Costa cockheads believe the perfect instant coffee is achieved by putting the cold milk in first before adding the hot water. If you attempt to educate these caffeinated cretins they resort to the dumbest argument in the history of the history of arguments.
“Boiling water burns the coffee which is why I put the milk in first”
Excuse me, what??
“I said boiling water burns the cof…”
Yes I heard you. I’ve just never had to process that amount of stupid in such a short space of time.
Instant coffee is designed to have boiling water poured on it. It’s not possible to burn something designed to have boiling water poured on it. Apparently their argument extends to the suggestion you wait until the water has cooled a bit, reducing the validity of the term ‘instant’.
It’s possible to burn REAL coffee made from ground up coffee beans, but not instant coffee.
This is usually met with a derisive sneer from those ‘in the know’.
Well, you unpercolated pricks, this is how instant coffee is created.
The coffee beans are roasted to temperatures in excess of 165 °C, which is a lot fucking hotter than your kettle, but I’ll continue….
The beans are then ground finely so they become soluble and are percolated in water at temperatures of 155 to 180°C. Again, really fucking hot.
“Oh no….what if they burn the coffee??”
Idiots.
Then it’s spray dried or freeze dried, ready to be rehydrated by the boiling hot water from your kettle….or clogged up with cold milk so it can’t dissolve properly.
But don’t take my word for it, look it up. In fact, here…I’ll save you the time.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Instant_coffee
And I’m sorry, but saying the flavour is better when the milk goes in first is bollocks. No-one likes those little islands of clumped up coffee swirling in their drink.
Oh, and your t-shirt is on inside out.
I am currently enjoying the pleasure of having a rodent of some kind scratching away in the loft every night, just above my bed. I’ve attempted laying humane traps to catch the little critter alive, but he’s just not interested in leaving.
Now the word ‘critter’ has changed to ‘fucker’ in my mind so I’ve resorted to poisoning the little shit.
Last night I braved the darkness of the loft to lay some trays of death out for dinner. Interestingly the packet described the little blue pellets as being made from whole wheat, which suggests to me that although it’ll kill the little bastard, at least we know it’ll be nutritional. It actually says the same thing on a box of cereal.
Worrying.
I rarely venture into the attic as it’s cold, dark, full of thick cobwebs like those experienced by Indiana Jones and has no floor. Well I say it has no floor; it has plenty of splinter-rich planks strewn across a maze of ceiling beams and insulation that resembles yellow candy floss. It also houses a dusty water tank that has to be negotiated, complete with various pipes, before you can actually get into the attic proper. My escapades went a little like this…
Reach up, remove the loft cover and bring the ladder down.
Climb the ladder.
Descend back down the ladder and get the torch.
Climb the ladder again.
Swear.
Descend the ladder one more time to get the poison.
Climb the ladder.
Clamber over the water pipes and under the roof beams like a cat burglar in a room full of lasers.
Have the belt loop on the back of my jeans catch on the roof beam by literally a millimetre, but enough to halt my progress.
Attempt to push through regardless.
Hear the material threaten to rip, so arch my back to dip under the beam and subsequently rub my t-shirt and face all over the dusty water tank in order to make it to the other side.
Get a splinter in my hand.
Swear again.
Clamber back over the water pipes to get the poison I left by the ladder. Belt loop catches again.
Another splinter.
Much swearing.
Cat burglar back across the pipes, not catching my belt loop this time, but severely dusting my front again.
Kneel down on the hard planks and pour the poison pellets into three little trays.
Freak out when a cobweb strokes my head and thrash out furiously at my face and hair like a madman.
Realise I don’t have enough light, so decide to go back down the ladder to get a lamp.
Belt loop catches again.
Run a long extension lead up to the loft, along with a bedside lamp, both of which snag on everything possible to impede my progress.
Remove the lampshade for better light, burning my splintered hand on the hot bulb.
Swear again.
The lamp falls over. I stand it back up.
Create a makeshift floor with splintered planks for the part of the loft I need to get to.
Crawl across the newly laid planks.
Crawl back to stand up the fallen lamp.
Crawl back out across the planks.
Realise I need more light.
Lean back to reach the torch which happens to be just out of reach behind a roof beam by literally an atom’s width.
Swear again, loudly.
Crawl back to get the torch and then back out to where I’m placing the trays.
Swear again.
Crawl back, pick up the trays.
Spill one of the trays all over the floor.
Another splinter.
Breathe gently.
Pick up the fallen lamp.
Crawl back out to where I need to be.
Place the trays amongst the cobwebs and dust, accompanied with the words “And fucking stay there you bastards!”
Make my way back to the ladder with the extension lead, hot lamp, lampshade, torch and box of poison.
Belt loop gets stuck on the roof beam.
Throw down all items in a mild rage.
Hot lamp bulb sticks to the plastic tarpaulin covering the water tank, causing the plastic to melt all over the bulb and creating an acrid burning plastic smell.
Everything (except the lamp) thrown down the loft hole and onto the landing below.
The extension cord tangles on the ladder.
Swear.
Climb down the ladder.
Climb back up the ladder to put the unopened sachet of poison back in the loft for the next time.
Climb back down the ladder.
Untangle the cord and burn hand on the hot lamp bulb.
Get the Dyson out to clean up the shattered lampshade.
Bon appétit you little shit.
Head In A Blender 