Commuting is the pits

Body odour on the London underground should be punishable by death.

Or a bath.

As soon as the acrid stench filled my nose (and those of the other sardines packed in the tin with me), the very attractive, tall blonde to my left looked at me and I suddenly realised she may think the niff is coming from me.

Don’t get me wrong here…I’m a happily married man, but that doesn’t mean I’m content with this woman thinking I smell like an armpit.

And it was a STRONG smell; the type that had been fermenting for a long, long time.

So I did what anyone would do in a situation like this, I held my fist under my nose in a theatrical attempt to indicate it WASN’T me.  Basically I was miming “Pheeeuw! What is that noxious smell? It’s clearly not me as I’m attempting to mask it.  See, I’m very obviously attempting to mask it with my fist and the inside of my jacket, so it’s obviously not me!”

Everyone was shiftily looking around trying to figure out who the culprit was, like some kind of silent game of Cluedo. 

Luckily, whenever the train started moving it wafted the fetid stink through the carriage like a stagnant curry fart under a disturbed duvet.

I think it was Professor Pong, on the tube, with the empty can of deodorant. 

Or the blonde.

Tube Stench

No parking!

This morning I was greeted by this…

car block

Some inconsiderate prick thought it was a good idea to park their car right across my garage.

My first instinct was to get in my car and sound the horn until the fucker came out and then punch them in the face, but it was 7am and I didn’t really want to wake the whole neighbourhood.  I was angry, but that didn’t excuse me being an annoying wanker about it.

My second instinct was to kick or scratch their car, but considering my vehicle is the only one blocked in, it would’ve pretty obvious who had done the damage and I didn’t want to risk them retaliating. 

It’s not like I could move my car and hide it afterwards.

This is also the reason I resisted squatting on the bonnet and laying a hot fresh pie on their windscreen.

Shame, because the first one of the day is usually the meatiest.

And if they didn’t retaliate I could be slapped with a fine for criminal damage, which is always fun.

So instead I was terribly British and paced back and forth, muttering under my breath, and shaking my head in a misguided belief that it would somehow flush out the culprit…which it didn’t.

Instead I was left feeling more helpless and frustrated than a handcuffed pervert watching porn.

I was also angry that my four minute drive to the train station was going to result in a thirty minute uphill walk on a very, VERY cold October morning.

All I could do was take a photo (to send to my boss showing that my reason for being late is in fact genuine – not that I’m a cynic!), close my garage, lift their wiper blade up in defiance and begin my tedious walk to the station. 

I would’ve left a note under their wiper blades but annoyingly I didn’t have time to go back in the house to write it.  If I left immediately and walked at the blistering pace of an angry woman, I might just be able to make the later train.

I did, however, do the one thing that I thought might make me feel better; the one thing that may help ease my suffering and give me a sense of comfort.  I posted it on Facebook.

Within seconds I got the affirmation and acknowledgement I was so clearly craving, with lots of advice on a variety of vindictive things I could’ve done to teach this parking penis a lesson.  My favourite comment was this small poem…

 

Dear driver of the black car

Who do you think you are?

Don’t you find it bizarre…

You park but wander somewhere far?

Now my mate can’t access his car

Better this note, than my fucking crowbar!

 

Brilliant.

The customer is(n’t) always (b)right

You know when you call a company and the automated voice explains that your call may be recorded for training and quality purposes?  Well, I’m the person who listens to those calls.

Here is an interaction between one of our sales team (let’s call her Sandy) and a female customer.

 

Woman   “I’m interested in getting some information about a holiday to Dubai”

Sandy     “Let me check that for you, what date are you looking to travel?”

Woman   “I can’t hear you very well, you’re very faint”

Sandy     “Ok, give me one second”

 

* loud and crackly sounds of a telephone headset being furiously fumbled with and adjusted*

 

Sandy     “Is that better?”

Woman   “Yes that’s a bit better”

Sandy     “Oh lovely, ok so what dates….”

 

*interrupted by the customer*

 

Woman   “No, I still can’t hear you that well”

 

*fumble, crackle, fumble*

 

Sandy     “How’s that?”

Woman   “You’re still quite faint”

 

*fumble, fumble, crackle, fumble*

 

Sandy     “OK, IS THAT ANY BETTER?” (She’s almost shouting now)

Woman   “Yes, that’s a bit better”

Sandy     “OK GREAT, SO WHAT DATES….”

 

*interrupted by the customer*

 

Woman   “Hang on, I’ll just turn my radio down”

 

Proof that srupidity still lives amongst us.

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Toys, taxis and tourettes

I’ve just been for a wander in London, mostly to get out of the office for some fresh air and to stretch my legs.

My travels took me to ‘Forbidden Planet’; a Mecca to geeks up and down the country, selling all sorts of film, gaming and comic memorabilia. 

I passed a couple with their young son who was holding a life size replica of the portal gun from Aperture Laboratories, made famous by the game ‘Portal’.  Awesome!

As I got nearer I heard the dad telling the boy that he couldn’t have it.  This is fair enough, but the kid was already holding it in his arms.  At least tell the boy BEFORE you’ve watched him carefully pick it up off the shelf and hold it lovingly in his arms like a puppy, you turd.  

He pleaded with his dad, but the answer was no.

“How about a foam sword son?”

“How about you suck my hairless balls dad?”

I mooched around the shop for a bit, dribbling over Star Wars stuff, before heading back out into the rain. 

As I got to Tottenham Court road I saw a woman in a suit hail a taxi from the kerb.  She threw her arm up like an enthusiastic pupil answering a classroom question and the cab pulled over sharply.  She hop, skipped and jumped the deepening puddles towards the taxi door only to stop, turn back and shout “for fucks sake!” at the top of her lungs.

This turned a few heads.

It seems three Chinese students had beaten her to the taxi, and as it sped off she angrily attempted to hail another one.  This time she looked less like a pupil and more like a Nazi.

To top all this off I saw a skinny little man with a massive beard waiting to cross the road; shouting and arguing with the traffic lights, the pavement and the corner of the pub.  Despite it being one of the busiest cities in the world, there didn’t seem to be anyone else needing to cross the road at that moment. 

Weird.

Remember to use your ‘inside voice’, ok?

A couple of mornings ago the guy sat next to me on the train uttered loudly “for fuck’s sake!” whilst reading an email on his phone.

Sigh.

What was the point in that?  Hmm?  What did that achieve?

Nothing. 

Well, I say nothing; it DID achieve a certain sense of awkwardness which was nice.

What EXACTLY was the reaction he expected from me?

I have no idea what the correct etiquette should be when all I really wanted to do was tell him to shut the fuck up because it’s early and no-one was interested in his tedious bid for attention.

But seriously, what do you say in a situation like that?

I suppose I could have turned to him with a face of deep concern and said “Oh my god friend, what’s wrong?  What’s happened?  Are you ok?  Do you need me to do anything?  Oh god it must be terrible whatever it is!”, whilst gently stroking his face and sporting a quivering bottom lip.

I suppose I also could have tutted, rolled my eyes and said “bad news eh?” in a knowing ‘we’ve all been there mate’ kind of way.

But I was wearing headphones so I opted instead to ignore him because he was a prick.

shout at phone