On this nice quiet train carriage, a plum voiced prick starts talking unnecessarily loudly into his phone for all of us to hear.
“Oh, Chris, hi” “Yah” “Yah, M-hah hah hah” (known as the ‘posh twat’ laugh)
“No, I’m just on my way up from Gatwick now, yah”
“Uh huh, yah, I flew in, had the meeting, then went to Dubai, spent one night there and flew home; you know, the standard. M-hah hah hah”.
We all think he’s a complete cock.
You know, the standard.
This morning at Goodge Street Underground station I heard the following announcement:
“Ladies and Gentlemen; please be aware that lift number four is currently out of service while we perform essential routine maintenance”.
Fair enough.
There are no escalators at Goodge Street station but there are four lifts*, so we’d either use one of the three remaining lifts or take the spiral stairs to the surface; all 136 of them.
Fuck. That.
But the announcement didn’t stop there (although I wish it had); “Please use the remaining lifts one to three, or take the spiral stairs”.
Oh my god I am so thankful they told us that otherwise we could’ve been stuck down there for days.
*Or ‘elevators’ to our American brethren who may be confused**
**At the word ‘lift’.
This is wrong.
This is right.
This…
…causes the paper to hug the wall and becomes this…
…instead of being easy to grab and pull like this.
So don’t make us deal with this…
…when we want it as easy as this.
However…
…there is NOTHING more unforgivable than this!
During our lunch break at work today, my wife and I took advantage of the relatively nice day (a.k.a. “fuck me it’s not raining”) and took a leisurely stroll to the British Museum.
As a lunch break has a limited duration, we managed to walk in, say “ooh, it makes you think doesn’t it?” to a couple of exhibits, marvel (and get annoyed) at the amount of students and tourists there were and (attempt to) walk back out again.
We were in there 10 minutes, at the most.
As we exited the building into the big stone porch area we could see it was raining heavily. The most appropriate English idiom I can think of is: It was absolutely fucking pissing it down.
With both of us clever enough not to wear coats that had hoods, we decided it might be best to wait inside the large porch area until the rain either stopped or at least subsided enough for us to venture into it without the need for scuba gear or a kayak.
It seemed we weren’t the only people who had decided to stand in the dry, but I can assure you we were the only people I was the only person getting hit in the face with child umbrellas and doused with excess water from umbrellas being shaken off by the neanderthals arriving at the museum.
Maybe they’re visiting family.
My favourite moment was hearing the large oak doors open behind us, followed by a short pause, and then a voice that implied inbreeding was alive and well in our nation.
“Is it still raining?”
No mate, the floor is bubbling and splashy like that because it’s covered in 7-Up and we’re all stood here waiting for straws. Now pull your trousers up, dust off your knuckles and get back in your exhibit!
By now 20 minutes had passed and rivers had started forming. Time and patience were running out, so we decided to start the swim back to the office.
Along the way I joked that it would be typical if the rain stopped mere metres from the office.
It did.
My wife laughed.
I have never referred back to another person’s blog before, but there’s a first time for everything I guess, like skydiving or licking a pensioner.
I subscribe to a great blog (which I highly recommend) and today she was talking about the stresses of packing a suitcase. I must admit I’ve never had too much of an issue, but then again I spent a lot of my youth playing Tetris.
Plus, once you’ve been made aware of the ‘socks and pants stuffed into your shoes’ trick it’s safe to say the feeling of smugness overrides the feeling of despair at not being able to fit in yet another t-shirt which you’ll inevitably bring back unworn and full of creases.
The one part of her post that really resonated with me was that moment an item you’ve lost suddenly (and maliciously) turns up after you’ve asked someone to help you look for it. And I don’t mean you find it quicker, I mean it is sitting there in plain sight where you’ve already looked a dozen times.
Bastard.
This got me thinking about the opposite of that when you’re unable to recreate an awesome moment because you have someone there to witness it.
Case in point…
A few weeks ago I was sat in the break room having a sandwich. It was late in the afternoon which meant no-one else was in there.
Perfect.
As I finished my sandwich I looked over at the bin, which was about 8 feet to my left, and smiled as I picked up the foil my sandwich had been in and screwed it up into a ball. Then, with my right arm, I threw it casually sideways over my head without looking and, not only did it go in, it didn’t even touch the sides!
Boom!
I performed an airgrab, accompanied it with something like “Yeah, get in there!” and then went for a high five only to realise no-one was there to witness it.
Cock.
It could have bounced off a cupboard, ricocheted off the fridge, rolled along a shelf and been scissor-kicked into the bin by a passing mouse and it still wouldn’t have made the blindest difference.
No witness means I could have just made it up.
Yet if there HAD been someone there I wouldn’t have been able to hit the bin if my life depended on it. It may as well be 50 feet wide and house a black hole inside, sucking in the universe, and I still would have missed on an epic scale.
“I got it in last time!”
“Of course you did Dan, sure you did”
I had trouble walking through London Victoria station this morning due to some idiot in front of me pulling a big red holdall on wheels.
Slowly.
I tried as hard as possible to pass him, but he blocked me at every attempt; zigzagging like a shark swimming through an ocean of directionless pillocks….sorry, pollocks.
Is it wrong that I wanted to punch him out of the way?
He was a menace, nearly taking out my legs and those of others around me. He was oblivious to the carnage he was leaving in his wake.
It might also explain why his bag was red; stained with the shin blood of the capital’s masses.
Eventually I managed to get past him and felt the same sense of freedom as overtaking a tractor on a narrow country road. I had the urge to run through the station, flailing my arms in the air screaming “Yes! Yes! I’m free!!”, but I decided against it as I wasn’t entirely convinced my wife would join in.
Although she IS American, so there was a chance.
Still, I wasn’t going to chance it and frankly I was just too tired.
The excitement and energy of passing the holdall hauling halfwit meant I really didn’t have the strength to do anything but place one foot in front of the other.
Anyway, we traversed the concourse and headed towards the underground station, joining the throng of people shoving themselves through the entrance.
As we joined the back of the crowd, there in front of me was the big red holdall on wheels.
How the fuck?
I looked behind me in case there was another big bag bearing bell-end, but only saw a trail of hobbling commuters; limping and clutching their shins.
I turned back in disbelief and it was then that I noticed the writing on his bag:
‘London Fire Brigade – Keeping London Safe’
(clenches fist)
Last night my wife and I got into the car at the end of a long train commute home from London and I turned the ignition, lighting up the dashboard.
In fact, I took a photo. Here it is…
As we sat there with the engine idling, waiting for the mist to clear from the windscreen, I suddenly noticed the total mileage the car had done.
I couldn’t believe it.
Like the misadventures of a pre-adolescent youth with a calculator, I’d had the outstanding realisation that 58008 is in fact the word ‘BOOBS’ upside down!
This only happens once in a car’s lifetime so I was NOT passing up the opportunity to take a photo.
As I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes, my wife simply rolled hers.*
*eyes, not boobs.
Recently my wife started working at the same company as me. Her role in the company requires us to get into work a little closer to 8.30am than 9am.
Dammit.
In order to achieve this we’ve discovered we can catch the same train I’ve always caught and then get off at the following station to connect with a much faster train into London.
Make sense?
So why haven’t I always done this?
Well, there is a method in my madness. The train I always catch is virtually empty with tons of cosy seats for much needed snoozing, whereas the faster (and therefore more popular) train is standing room only; packed full of happy and joyful commuters all too happy that I’m taking up that last square inch of space on the train.
It’s all very intimate. Lots of touching.
So, in true form, we boarded the slow and empty train and took a seat. It was a little taster of what we could’ve had if we’d stayed on board, but soon enough the next station was upon us and we reluctantly got off.
It was a cold and rainy morning, so that always makes it easier.
The train sat in the station for a few minutes and I took this time to smile at the amount of people running to get on before it left. There were a lot of them this morning for some reason.
Maybe they knew something we didnt.
Maybe they should’ve risen out of bed earlier this morning.
Maybe I hadn’t noticed in the past because by this time I was usually sat on my virtually empty train; head back, mouth open.
My favourite of these platform runners was the business man who sprinted at the doors just as they began to close, managing to wedge his hand between them in a futile attempt to prise them open like some kind of action hero.
The doors didn’t open.
He removed his hand.
I smiled and turned to my wife, “That’s happened to me so many times”, before turning back and continuing with, “Ha ha, gutted mate”.
The guard blew his whistle and the train slowly started to pull away. The business man looked thoroughly pissed off, as did the others who didnt even manage to get close enough for some ‘hand in door’ action. But, to be honest, they needn’t be; the next train was also heading to London Victoria station and would actually get them in 15 minutes earlier.
Granted it’ll be standing room only, but its all very friendly.
Why the rush for this particular train? Calm down people. The faster train is just behind it. Relax.
We looked up at the information board which was still displaying the virtually empty, and still slowly departing, train and waited to see if the fast train behind it was on time.
‘Cancelled’
What?? No!!!
We shouldn’t have got off!
The slower train would’ve got us to the office on time, but now we were going to be late.
The runners knew. They KNEW!
Shit.
And as we watched the virtually empty ‘slow’ train full of warm and comfy seats (that we’d just been sitting on) leave the station I swear I caught the business man smiling at me.
Ha ha, gutted mate.
There’s nothing like that beautiful silence when one half of the ridiculously loud and plummy voiced couple talking utter bollocks on the train finally arrives at their stop and gets the fuck off.
There really is nothing like it…
The place – London Victoria Station.
The time – 07:29am.
The scene – Hundreds of ‘cheerful’ commuters ploughing through the ticket barriers with an assortment of tickets and cards.
At times the barriers decide to have a hissy fit and refuse to open. This could be for several reasons:
The machines love preying on those who need the barriers to open more urgently than anyone else.
These bastards know; (whispers) they KNOW!
However, this morning there were no commuters carrying anything heavier than furrowed brows and a desire to get through the barriers quickly. This is when these automated arseholes prefer to strike; picking off the weakest of the herd and testing their patience to the limit.
Today was no different.
A woman strutted up to a barrier, pressed her Oyster card against the card reader, received the usual ‘beep’ and continued strutting, only to be virtually impaled on the unopened barriers. This can be frustrating at the best of times, but when you’ve got a queue of 20 or more people behind you, it is also incredibly embarrassing.
She tutted and pressed her card against the reader again.
‘Beep’
The barriers didn’t open.
The air suddenly felt thick with silent rage and suppressed violence from those behind her.
“Oh come on!” she half shouted as she slapped her card against the reader.
‘Beep’
The barriers didn’t open.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
Slap!
‘Beep’
Slap!
‘Beep’
“Come on you fucking thing!”
Slap slap slap!
‘Beep’
The barriers remained closed and the queue behind her was getting longer and longer like some massive dickheaded snake.
Instead of admitting defeat and seeking the help of a guard, she did something that inspired me to write this post; she began ramming herself against the barriers shouting “come on!”
Over and over she thrust herself against the barriers, trying to squeeze through the unyielding and un-widening gap. It had eluded her that it was called a barrier for a reason.
Slam!
“Come on!”
Slam!
“You bastard, come on!”
Slam!
“Gnn!”
Slap slap slap!
‘Beep”
Slam!
I noticed the snake had started to dissipate and join other queues, but a few people stayed behind to watch this woman meltdown before their eyes. I don’t blame them.
She eventually relented and went, bloodied and bruised, to find a guard.
‘Beep’
I went through.
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Uh huh”
“Yeah”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
(Long pause)
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Well yeah”
(Pause)
“Yup”
“Uh huh”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah of course”
“Yeah”
“Yup”
“Yeah, OK bye”
…was the half of the telephone conversation we all had to endure from some guy on the train.
It was as annoying as a dripping tap.
I’m sure he’ll agree.
Head In A Blender 