This morning at the train station I saw a young guy with a tattoo on his forearm that read “Live Free”.
He was also on his way to work.
Some people make this too easy.
There was confusion in Starbucks this morning. The woman who was calling out the finished beverages at the collection area had the loosest grasp of English.
“Vebbi capparan cheeno fomackle?”
There was no response. Instead we were all looking at each other baffled as this small woman held up a large paper cup full of mystery.
“Vebbi capparan cheeno fomackle?”
Still nothing from us. It didn’t help that we were all in need of coffee, which may or may not have been ready.
The small woman looked at the name scrawled on the cup and carefully shouted, “Mackle?”
The man next to me said “Michael?”
“Yes, dis is faryoo”.
“Is that a cappuccino?” he enquired.
“Yes, vebbi capparan cheeno”.
And as Michael picked up his not-so-hot-anymore cup of coffee and left, I realised that ‘Vebbi capparan cheeno fomackle’ meant ‘Venti cappuccino for Michael’.
It didn’t stop there.
“Gradday hansel nub skinnle latty foserra?” (Grande hazelnut skinny latte for Sarah)
“Smor mericano wiz is press shotten exta hor mik fomerry?” (Small Americano with an espresso shot and extra hot milk for Mary)
“Lar feeter coff foffipp?” (Large filter coffee for Phillip)
Actually, this was the easiest one to understand. After all, it was tea. It didn’t matter what words she murdered after saying ‘tea’, the owner (Madeline) knew it was for her.
There is always one who goes to an American coffee chain in England to have tea; the most English of hot drinks.
“Wozdee wul kuh mintoo?”
Occasionally something really grits my shit, but it’s such a small thing that I just deal with it and get on with life.
Well, I can take it no more.
Why create headphones that make it virtually impossible to distinguish left from right?
Every day I struggle to see which is which.
I look like an idiot, squinting like I’m having a difficult and painful shit; holding them at just the right angle in the light to make out the letters vaguely embossed at the depth of an atom.
How hard would this be to do?
You took the time to colour them purple, you bastards.
I’ve decided to start posting anything I see that defies common sense and logic.
There may only ever be a ‘Part 1’, but I seriously doubt it.
If truth be told, i’m a bit annoyed I didn’t think of doing this sooner because there are literally millions of examples of stupid out there that I’ve simply rolled my eyes at and done nothing with.
So here is the first (of many) that I saw on a candle in a supermarket yesterday.
I rest my case.
Whilst sat having lunch with my wife, we were overpowered by the loud plum voiced conversation being had at the next table.
It quickly became clear this ‘man’ (I use that term loosely) and woman worked in the film industry due to the number of names being dropped per second.
Seriously, there were more drops than a Dubstep album. They were almost trying to outdo each other over who has sucked more celebrity cock.
Then, during the mindless drivel and overenthusiastic nodding, the ‘man’ said something about his child.
I’m sorry, his what?
How did that happen?
Anyway, this prompted my favourite part of the conversation and the reason for today’s post.
“I’ve got a photo of him here”, he said pulling out a pink sequined purse* and producing a crumpled up photograph, “He’s 17 months, but he looks 22”
*not strictly true. It was lilac**
**also not true
On Sunday I decided to bite the bullet and buy a strimmer to tackle the garden again. It had been over a year since I’d last done it, and last week I swear I saw a man in a loincloth swing past on a vine.
For those who don’t know what a strimmer looks like, it’s one of these.
In fact, this is the exact model I bought.
I got it home, assembled it and ventured into the garden to kick Mother Nature in the vagina.
‘This is going to be fun’ I thought to myself as I pulled the trigger and the 350 watt engine roared into life. I felt manly and primal as I revved the engine in a threatening manner. The greenery in front of me was about to feel nylon death.
After 30 seconds of sheer and utter joyful destruction, the strimmer stopped cutting. I switched it off, checked underneath and saw that the spool of nylon cord had snapped.
Actually, if it had simply snapped I could’ve pressed the ‘manual feed’ button and pulled more thread through the holes, but this had snapped completely and gone inside the spool. The feeling was similar to noticing the cord on your joggers (sweat pants) had retracted inside the holes.
No problem; I’ll just open up the spool and manually feed it through. I soon discovered that threading the small red nylon cord through tiny aluminium holes in the ‘feeder’ was like trying to perform keyhole surgery with your elbows.
(not actual photo, but close enough)
After 3 or 4 minutes of silent rage and suppressed expletives I was back in business.
Tearing through the flora again made me feel alive; alive I tell you! I shredded through the overgrowth like an 80’s action hero with an Uzi.
It was short lived, however. Another 20 seconds and the same thing happened again.
I could see where this was going.
This time the nylon cord had not only snapped and retracted into the spool, but it had melted slightly and fused itself to both the spool and the coiled up nylon cord inside.
A further 5 or 6 minutes of keyhole surgery, and some less silent rage and expletives, and I was up and running again.
Feel nylon death you bastard garden!
Another 15 seconds and it happened again. This time I had to prise the melted cord away from the spool with a screwdriver.
This went on for a while. In fact, on the 8th time of doing this the nylon cord decided to unspool itself fully right before my eyes.
The strimmer now looks like this.
In its 20 minute working life it had one function.
Time to call a gardener.