Women’s clothing sucks

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.

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Pardon? Speak up….

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.

A missed opportunity

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.

Cyberscared

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.

Newspooper

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.

Animated conversation

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.

What would the Earl say?

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.

ham