Fed Zeppelin

Posted on Dec 23, 2013 by headinablender

The supermarket last night was manic, with last minute Christmas shoppers packing their trollies tight like a hungry alcoholic competition winner on a supermarket dash.

I was regrettably in there because we had run out of alcohol in the house and that’s a sin at any time of the year, let alone Christmas.

After negotiating the badly driven trollies and turkey laden imbeciles with no sense of direction or intelligence, I loaded up my trolley and slalomed my way through the festive fuckwits to the checkouts.

After queuing for an eternity behind knuckle draggers and bickering couples, I finally reached the checkout. I began loading my meagre purchases onto the belt and awaited my “sorry to keep you waiting, would you like some bags?” from the friendly checkout girl.

No, its OK, I’ll just kick my stuff all the way to the car.

Probably not the best approach as these guys were swamped with Chrismassy cretins and their sanity was hanging by a thread.

As I was stood there being thankful that ASDA didn’t sell firearms, I couldn’t help but watch the two women behind me unloading their shopping onto the belt behind mine (and yes, this time there was a divider). They were both rather large ladies, one considerably larger than the other. A lot larger.

I shall call her Zeppelina.

They were placing item after item after item after item onto the checkout which had started creaking under the weight, and I began to wonder if this was their Christmas shop or ‘just the weekly’.

Anyway, after about 5 minutes Zeppelina pulled out an empty chocolate wrapper from their trolley and gave her friend a smile that said, ‘oops, what am I like?’.

A pig?

Zeppelina used this moment to take a breather from the exhaustive nature of what she was doing (as some of those cakes looked quite heavy), and once she’d caught her breath and stopped wheezing she handed the wrapper to her friend and said, “we’ll need to explain that”.

No she won’t.

Knucklehead

Posted on Dec 20, 2013 by headinablender

This morning on the tube I noticed a young girl wearing one of those rings that covers two fingers like a fashionable knuckle duster.

This piece of weaponised jewellery was gold. Well, I say ‘gold’…it was gold coloured plastic in the shape of the word ‘Bad’.

And it really was.

Grammar: The difference between knowing your shit and knowing you’re shit.

Posted on Dec 19, 2013 by headinablender

This afternoon I read a group email sent out by one of the girls in the office asking for assistance with her clients as she is going to be absent over the next few days.

Fair enough.

She then ended the email with, “If you guys could keep an eye out on these and process them for me I would be internally great full”.

Too easy.

(pun intended)

The great divide

Posted on Dec 18, 2013 by headinablender

Whilst in ASDA I noticed that the guy behind me in the queue at the checkout wasn’t putting his shopping on the conveyor belt behind mine.

It was a self-service checkout and the woman in front of me was scanning her goods at an impressive speed, so the space being created behind my shopping was fast becoming wider and wider, and yet this guy still wasn’t putting his shopping on the belt.

Odd.

He only had a 4-pint bottle of milk and a couple of loaves of bread, but his reluctance to do his duty and put said items onto the moving black rubber meant the couple behind him couldn’t put their shopping on either. Their grimacing and angry whispers to each other suggesting they were just fine with it.

Eventually Speedy Gonzales in front of me bagged up her shopping, paid and buggered off, meaning it was my turn to ‘bleep’ through my purchases. I picked up the plastic divider that had been between my shopping and that of The Flash’s wife and placed it at the back of my items on the belt.

It was at this point that this idiot sprung into action, placing his crap on the conveyor belt in under a fifth of a second. It seems he had been waiting for the divider all along. Clearly I couldn’t be trusted to stop scanning when I got to the end of my items if there wasn’t a plastic divider. I must love the bleeping sound so much that I get into a bleeping frenzy and wouldn’t think to bleeping stop without the bleeping divider!

Bleeping twat.

And what if I DID accidentally scan one of his items that wasn’t one of mine? Putting aside the fact that I didn’t need any of his shit, what would be the problem if my bleeping frenzy went a little overboard? Well, I would get a member of staff to remove it, or he gets his fucking milk paid for by a stranger.

Anyway, once he’d finished putting all (three) of his items on the belt, the couple behind him started piling their shopping on behind his with a ferocity that might suggest they’ve been waiting to do it for a while now. He looked at them nervously and shuffled his shopping closer to mine, creating a very definite gap between his and theirs.

Uh oh, no divider.

Maybe he’s worried that he might forget to stop without a divider there? Oh no!

Anyway, I finish scanning (luckily there was a divider otherwise I might have kept going) and paid for my shopping. The moment I removed my debit card from the card reader to indicate the end of my transaction (and the absolute certainty that I had indeed stopped scanning items), he practically leapt onto the plastic divider that had now become redundant and wedged it triumphantly between his shopping and that of Mr and Mrs Grimace.

He then turned back and in doing so, knocked his milk off the belt, splitting the plastic bottle and covering the floor in an ocean of the white stuff.

As I picked up my shopping bags and stepped backwards quickly, I resisted the urge not to laugh, smile, smirk or grin. The Grimaces, however, did not. They even pointed.

Idiot’s idiom

Posted on Dec 17, 2013 by headinablender

I’ve just heard a man on his phone refer to some business plan as “… the last arrow in the box”.

It’s ‘quiver’.

You twat.

Subway club

Posted on Dec 17, 2013 by headinablender

Imagine a Subway sandwich shop at lunchtime. It was busy; heaving with people cramming themselves in for 6 or 12 inches of satisfaction.

Ahem…

The queue was practically out of the door and it was going to take a while until anyone was served. This allowed plenty of time to peruse the brightly back-lit displays of delicious sandwiches on offer.

And yet there was some penis who, after queuing quietly for a lifetime, got to the front and THEN begin deciding what he wanted.

That’s it, start the decision process now dipshit.

Right now.

Not when you came in. Not while you were queuing for an eternity.

Nope…now.

Now is the perfect time to start thinking about what you might possibly maybe want to have, you total and utter bell-end.

“Erm….I think I’ll have, er…hmm, I don’t really know. What’s your sub of the day?”

“We don’t do the sub of the day anymore sir”.

“Oh right, er, ok. Right….I’ll have…erm….hmm….what do I fancy?”

At this point I could take no more. I stood up from my seat (I wasn’t even in the queue), turned him around, clubbed him across his stupid face with my sandwich shouting “too slow cockface!” while covering him in bits of masticated turkey ham and salad, before frogmarching him out of the shop to an enthusiastic, if not distinctly boney, round of applause from the emaciated starving masses in the queue.

If only.

Uh oh, someone’s in trouble…

Posted on Dec 16, 2013 by headinablender

Tonight’s train announcement was so good I just had to blog about it.

We were sat at East Croydon station for a prolonged amount of time when the speaker system fired up with….

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking. I’m sorry we’re currently being held at the station a little longer than expected. I have no idea why we’re being delayed. There are two platform staff a little further down from me but neither of them have had the decency to come over and actually tell me whats going on, so I’m in the dark just as much as you are. I will be taking it up with their manager as this is a poor example of customer service”.

I sensed the words “wankers”, “twats” and “hapless” were on the tip of his tongue, but I couldn’t be sure.

There were a few smiles amongst my fellow commuters.

I’m pretty sure I actually saw someone high five him as he walked up the train checking tickets. Then again, it could’ve been a slap. I’ve known it to happen.

Luck with a capital F

Posted on Dec 7, 2013 by headinablender

My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place. Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.

Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.

Needless to say, she needed a bank account.

So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life. This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.

We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.

I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.

This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification. Thanks for telling us. I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway. Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.

It’s online for a reason people.

I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.

But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other. This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.

We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum. Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.

So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine. I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.

“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.

‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’

I’m sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? £3.10?? I don’t need two hours! And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?

I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine. Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price. They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car. Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?

Wankers.

Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.

No fucking way.

I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.

Off she went.

I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office. There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.

It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.

Of course.

I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.

I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.

We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.

Of course.

So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim. This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.

Not this Sunday though. This Sunday they were shut. No reason; they just were.

Of course.

We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.

Fuck it, I was going to wait outside. All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.

She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street. Oh come on!

I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.

After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head. It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before. Apparently she needed to produce her passport.

I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.

Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off. We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later. In she went again. I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.

This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder. It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK. Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!

What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.

I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.

Well, I suppose everything comes in threes. The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon. Surely that’s the end of it?

Nope.

We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.

The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.

At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I. Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.

After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train. Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.

We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.

The accidental pervert

Posted on Dec 2, 2013 by headinablender

The London Underground is a busy place at rush hour; crammed full of people from every walk of life and in every shape, size and colour.

A few days ago I was on the platform at London Victoria underground station awaiting the next sardine tin to arrive and whisk us away. It was the usual scenario of pushing and squashing to get prime position on the platform for the opening doors. The train pulled alongside the platform, the doors opened and we all started to habitually scowl at the people getting off the train.

A scowl that basically says, ‘hurry the fuck up’.

Once the dead weight had alighted the train, the slow motion pushing and shoving began, only to be met with the one fucking twat who still hasn’t disembarked the train.

Why does this happen? Who the fuck forgets to get off the train?

It’s likely they suddenly realised this was their stop (at the last minute) because they were too caught up playing Candy (fucking) Crush.

They are, in fact, complete idiots.

This late, sloth-like exodus by these morons usually reignites the scowl, with a subtle hint of eye rolling and a lot of quiet sighing as we’re forced to slowly move back onto the platform from the much coveted metal flooring of the train. Today was no exception.

Ok, are they out?

Are we sure?

Good.

Puuuuuuuush…..!!!

The slow motion mosh pit resumed and bodies were crushed together like a man’s junk in 80s jeans. It was nuts to butts as we managed to squeeze the last person on, leaving no room to slide a credit card between us. There were armpits in the face and lumps and bumps pressed against lumps and bumps.

But frankly, I didn’t care. I was on the train. So fuck the rest of you. Ha!

I freed one of my hands and reached up to grab a rail in anticipation of the train moving.

At this moment a guy managed to somehow shoehorn himself onto the train before the doors closed, causing a domino effect of squashing that resulted in a woman pressing right up against me.

Now, this isn’t unusual on the underground by any means, but on this occasion she’d managed to effortlessly wedge my other hand against my thigh……with her bum.

It’s worth mentioning that I hadn’t actually noticed at first; fighting to keep my footing and stay upright as the train pulled away. To be honest, if I’d let go of the rail I still wouldn’t have fallen over as there wasn’t space to move. I reckon I could’ve lifted both feet off the ground and still stayed in place, although I may have sunk down like I was in quicksand and I would’ve had a face full of bum.

The train had started to shake and jerk around like it usually does, which is when I realised that I had a bum rubbing left and right against the back of my hand. This would’ve been tolerable if she’d been a 21 year old model, but not if she was a 55 year old geography teacher.

But i’m a happily married man, so I use the word ‘tolerable’ loosely.

(Ahem)

Anyway, I could clearly make out the bum cleft on each pass of her buttocks across my hand. I could make out the shape and density of each cheek as it swayed left, then right, then left; over and over again like she was Miley Cyrus and I was Robin Thicke.

The certainty I had of being able to pick out the subtle distinctions in the shape of her bum left me realising the cold, unnerving truth; this granny was either wearing a thong…or nothing.

(Shudder)

I was also very aware that my hand was so wedged in that I would’ve had to pull really hard to remove it, alerting her to the fact that it was my hand and not some random bag or something. Also, considering it had been wedged in there at least 45 seconds at this point, I would’ve been considered a bit of a pervert for not moving it sooner.

That would’ve resulted in an entirely different type of scowl.

So I could do nothing but stand there for the next two minutes, copping a feel against my will, with very distinguishable buttocks rubbing seductively against me by an unattractive old woman who had no idea she was doing it.

I washed my hands a lot when I got to work.