I have had a lot of coffee today.
As a result, my piss smells of coffee.
Usually it’s the other way around.
Costa Penny
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Category Archives: Humour
Fuck ‘n’ Awesome
Arrived at London Victoria station to see my train had been cancelled.
Fuck.
But I was earlier than usual so I could jump on a slightly earlier train and still make my connection near home.
Awesome.
The train was packed solid with commuters having the same idea as me.
Fuck.
And yet I found a seat!
Awesome.
But due to the train not taking the exact same route as my usual service, I forgot to get off at Three Bridges station which resulted in me having to go all the way to Haywards Heath.
Fuck!
Yet thankfully there was a train back to Three Bridges in about 6 minutes.
Awesome.
I jumped on and the train took us 98% of the way before stopping at a red signal just outside Three Bridges for about 12 minutes.
Fuck!!
When we finally pulled into the station I could see that a train going my way was on the other platform and was delayed. If I ran I could make it!
Awesome.
This run involved going down a slope, under the railway track and back up some stairs. I was wearing shoes that ‘clip clopped’ quite loudly to alert people that I was fast approaching. Most didn’t move aside; including a short fat butch dyke looking bitch who tutted me as I raced by. Eat a dick.
I missed the train by about 3 seconds.
FUCK!
Its freezing cold, dark and I now have a 20 minute wait ahead of me.
Whine and complain?
Me?
Never!
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.
No parking!
This morning I was greeted by this…
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 stupidity still lives amongst us.
Hal E. Tosis
Holy shit…the guy opposite me on the train has breath that can cut through steel…and my skull, via my nasal cavity.
‘gip’
(Swallow)
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.
Blind leading the blind…
Does anyone else see the irony in this?
Mis-carriage
This morning the much coveted front carriage of the train was inaccessible and the doors weren’t working.
It is much coveted because the exit at London Victoria station is at the front and saving ourselves an extra few metres at the end of the journey is just SO important.
As a small group of us collected by the door, the allocated ‘pusher of the door button’ (which is never discussed or agreed, but still the responsibility somehow falls to one person and never disputed) started prodding away only to find that nothing was happening.
The driver had to lean out of the window and tell us, as we continued to stand there watching the ‘pusher of the door button’ moronically repeat her duty over and over, that the carriage was out of order due to a broken window and we’ll have to use the carriage behind it.
That would explain all the yellow and black striped tape covering the window. I was actually looking forward to it blocking out the sun to be honest.
There was the slightly squelchy noise as all eyes rolled in unison before we grudgingly, but with a slightly awkward walk/run, made our way to carriage number two.
What was interesting*, as I took my seat, was the fact that my fellow commuters then tried to access the front carriage from the inside, moaning and tutting when the doors were inevitably locked. It was almost as if the train company KNEW they were going to attempt that.
Clever train company; they thought of everything.
Asking these creatures of habit to find a seat in a different carriage is like asking a man to stop touching his penis or a woman to change her mind.
Possible, but not without a little drama and upset.
You know when a dog takes forever to pick where they want to lay down, and then when they do eventually make a decision they circle and circle and circle until they either finally lay down or get shouted at to lay the fuck down?
It’s the same with commuters.
*fucking annoying
Crapham’s junction box
The guard on the train has just announced that we will not be stopping at Clapham Junction because the station has had a power cut and the lights aren’t working.
It doesn’t affect me but it clearly affects half the carriage as they all let out a very angry and very audible sigh, in perfect unison.
To be honest, I’m now feeling a little faint from the sudden increase in carbon dioxide.
Granted it’s almost 7pm and its starting to get dark, but as we passed through Clapham Junction it was sumptuously lit up by surrounding houses and street lamps.
Apparently the closure is for health and safety reasons.
I’ve just seen the guard lock himself away for the exact same reasons.
The last leg
Its bad enough that I have to change trains ONE stop before my stop, but its even worse when the connecting train is delayed.
But they don’t just tell us it’s 30 minutes late.
Oh no.
They say its 10 minutes late, and then when the 10 minutes is nearly up they add on another 5 minutes and then another 10 minutes etc…until the train finally fucking arrives.
Annoyingly I need to pick up some provisions from ASDA tonight which is practically a stone’s throw from the station I’m stood at.
If I’d known I was going to be stuck here for 30 minutes I would’ve walked to ASDA and got my shit to carry on the train for the ONE stop to my car.
But no…now I have to drive all the way BACK here.
Thanks Friday….you just had to get the boot in before the weekend.
Piss de resistance
Regular readers of my blog will remember I once ranted about automated doors and their ability to hinder the actual act of opening a door.
For those new to my blog, or those with the memory of a man under investigation for allegedly having sex with a goat, you’ll find the entry here.
Following on from this, I had another choice encounter.
Last night as I left the office, I paused for a moment as I could feel that slight tickle in my bladder suggesting there was a piss in my very near future. I was running late and, as it only takes about 20 minutes to get to Victoria station, I decided against draining the main vein until I was on the train home.
I could wait 20 minutes.
Fortunately, having walked for about 3 minutes towards the underground station, my tickle turned into a dull ache. Having consumed a litre and a half of squash in the last 45 minutes of the day I knew my bladder was not going to be filling up slowly.
I‘m now not sure I could wait 20 minutes.
I negotiated the shuffling morons, ticket barriers, escalators, platforms, trains and countless cases, bags and bell-ends to make it to Victoria station; by which time my bladder was really starting to hurt.
I walked as fast as I could to the platform where my 12 carriage toilet would be waiting. Unfortunately, ‘as fast as I could’ wasn’t very fast at all considering my bladder felt like it had swelled to the size of a small baby screaming for its mummy. If the station hadn’t been so noisy I would’ve been reported to Child Services.
I made it to the last set of barriers and was held up by some dickhead with a suitcase who couldn’t activate the barrier with his ticket AND walk forward with his suitcase at the same time. These skills appeared to be interchangeable, but not combinable. Interestingly it was the opposite with my foot and his arse.
My bladder shouted at me to use a different barrier and we were through. I walked to my platform like a wounded soldier on the battlefield and there in front of me was my train; my beautiful, beautiful train. What a magnificent sight. Tears were welling up in my eyes…at least I think they were tears. Are tears yellow?
I was starting to feel a little nervous at this point because a single knock from an arm swinger or one of the countless idiots I commute with and I would’ve basically unleashed yellow hell in my trousers.
I desperately scanned each carriage as I ‘walked’ down the platform; slaloming the directionless cretins who had just vacated the very train I was boarding.
There! A carriage with a toilet!
It was one of those automated toilets with the big curved door, but it would have to do. I frantically pressed the ‘open door’ button as I was beginning to tremble and sweat urine. The door started to rumble open at the speed of a tired sloth walking uphill through treacle whilst carrying a piano and wearing flippers.
As soon as the door had opened wide enough for me to fit through, I slipped inside. For the uninitiated, there are three buttons inside the cubicle that read ‘open door’, ‘close door’ and ‘lock door’. I pressed the button to close the door but it seemed the automated system hadn’t finished opening it and therefore I had to wait.
And wait.
It’s a big ol’ door.
Finally the door finished opening and I pressed the button again to close it. Well, I say ‘pressed’; it was more like ‘jabbed it 74 times in about 6 seconds’. The door then started to trundle slowly shut. It was slow. I mean REALLY slow.
It’s a big ol’ door.
Who fucking designed this? In fact, who fucking decided we needed an automated door on a toilet in the first place? It only serves to slow us down at a time when we’re probably in a hurry, like running away from zombies, hiding from the ticket inspector or….dare I say….needing the fucking toilet! Plus, being automated, we’re always left a little nervous that the door will suddenly and unexpectedly open of its own accord. Not what any of us want to experience, or see.
Also, these automated cubicles are massive. You could easily fit two normal cubicles in the same space. Two normal cubicles with two normal doors that open and close normally; and quickly.
Eventually the door came to rest and I pressed the ‘lock’ button whilst unsuccessfully attempting to open my fly. I was shaking so much from the pain that I resembled a person with Parkinson’s disease trying to thread a needle.
Finally I managed to free the beast and I did indeed unleash yellow hell.
Without going into too much detail, it felt like I was pissing out my soul. I could literally feel my body temperature drop and I believe I may have let out an “Oh yeah” at some point, but it’s unconfirmed.
It was emotional.
As I’ve said before, I bet Captain Kirk didn’t have to put up with this shit whenever he wanted to use the toilet.
(Insert Captain’s Log joke here)
What a swine
The guy opposite me on the train keeps oinking like a pig.
I’m serious.
I don’t mean a comedy cartoonish oink or a squeal, but that sound resembling a snort. Yes, that’s it, he’s snorting; three quick little snorts in a row every 10 or 15 seconds.
What the famyarding fuck?
He’s in his mid fifties with glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading some manuscript whilst wearing headphones. I don’t think he realises he’s doing it.
Thank god the next stop is mine. I don’t want to sty here any longer.
Next customer please
Why, at the supermarket checkout, are some people reluctant to put their shopping on the conveyor belt behind yours without a having plastic divider to separate the shopping? Are they afraid I’ll maliciously buy all their shopping and take it home?
Their solution seems to be to create a Grand Canyon sized gap between my shopping and theirs.
Perfect. It makes more sense than simply adding a divider once one becomes available.
Also, what about when it’s a ‘self service’ checkout?
I’m pretty confident that I’ll know when to stop scanning my items. I won’t accidentally buy your tampons, microwave cheeseburger, budget bread and extra large condoms.
Oh wait, those last ones are mine.
A quick shout out…
To all you commuters who like to change direction on a whim right in front of me, often two or three times, causing me to either bash into you, do a Matrix style maneuver around you or change direction entirely, often two or three times, thus perpetuating your retarded inability to fucking walk in a fucking straight fucking line….
To all you pricks who stop right at the top of the stairs in a station to decide your next life choice, causing me and the hundreds of unstopping masses to practically fall over you; resulting in us almost making the fucking choice for you….
To all you tedious twats who are simply stood still until the moment I’m literally about to walk past you, at which point you decide to walk out directly in my path resulting in me virtually FUCKING YOU UP with a full on body slam….
To all you meandering rimlickers who get on the train and then stop in the aisle to put away your train ticket, or change the track on your iPod or locate your disappointing genitals, unaware that the rest of us are stuck behind you,followed by not rushing to move or apologising when you do….
To all you shitbiting fuckers who sensibly stop in a doorway to sort out your luggage because it somehow seems the least obstructive place to be, despite the fact everyone uses doors to get into and out of places…
And to all you festering cockwarts who desperately try to get In front of me whilst walking and then, once you’ve succeeded, choose to either slow down to the speed of fuck all or stop altogether, making me wonder why you so desperately had the need to push in front of me, or breathe in and out for that matter…
To ALL of you absolute fucking bastards on my daily commute, may I just take this opportunity to say….
Phlegm fatale
On the London Underground this morning I was watching a woman sat down, meticulously adjusting her hair in a small hand-held mirror.
This little bit back there; this bit brought forward etc…
She was being very thorough and at one stage appeared to be struggling to get one part of her hair to go where she wanted it to. This may be because the train was being jostled left and right vigorously, but it’s likely because gravity actually exists.
Suddenly she stopped and looked up, like a deer hearing a twig snap in the quiet wood or that realisation that you’ve probably left the iron on at home. She was motionless, looking directly forward with intent and concern at no-one in particular.
“Atchoo!!”
She sneezed into her hand. The hand she then re-applied to her hair.
I always thought sneezes were unpredictable and unintentional, but her (now ‘gravity defying’) hair would suggest otherwise.
Grand theft awful
Just seen a woman in HMV ask for a copy of Grand Theft Auto 5 (certificate 18 I hasten to add) for her son who couldn’t have been older than 7.
She was told they’ve completely sold out.
The little fucking spoilt brat then completely LOST…HIS… SHIT!!
Makes my blood boil
The office I work in is very modern and contemporary. We have funky red sofas, LED TVs dotted around on the brilliantly white walls and more glass and steel than an episode of Buck Rogers.
One of the contemporary and modern fixtures we have is a tap in the kitchen that provides boiling hot water…on tap. It’s perfect for making a brew quickly and so it should be; I believe it cost around £2000.
And yet we still have a kettle.
Eh?
I’ve lost count the amount of times I’ve walked into the kitchen, said hello to the idiots waiting for the kettle to boil, made my drink with the tap and then said goodbye to the idiots still waiting for the kettle to boil.
I ask them why they’re not using the tap and I get inane answers like:
“The tap doesn’t get it hot enough”
Really? So the billowing steam coming off the water suggests it’s lukewarm does it? I dare you to run your hand or genitals under it. No? Why not?
“It’s just what I’m used to; the water tastes better from the kettle anyway”
Bullshit.
If anything, the tap tastes better because it’s filtered and it stays hot rather than being boiled over and over and over again. And besides, who really gives a smoking shit about the flavour of the water, considering you’re infusing it with whatever shit you’re drinking. And you’re probably making it wrong.
https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/03/28/fancy-a-cuppa/
https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/04/04/you-fcoffee/
And what’s more frustrating is when they simply look at me and shrug.
What can I say to that? There’s no reasoning with stupid. I hate smashing into a wall of pillock.
But above all this; above all the reasons and blank faced idiocy there’s something I’ve observed that really grits my shit.
Once they’ve made their hot drink, they put it in the microwave to get it hotter.
I’m sorry, hotter??
How fucking hot do you need it to be? Surely when it’s bubbling away like a witch’s cauldron it’s not wise to introduce it to your soft fleshy insides? No, of course it isn’t, which is why they proceed to sip it very gently, blowing on it to cool it down.
What? Sorry, what? I just don’t get it.
Yesterday I challenged one of them as he took his drink, now at the temperature of the sun, out of the microwave. I asked him why he was subjecting his already piping hot beverage to microwaves and he simply replied with, “it wasn’t hot enough”.
He then started to sip it tentatively and carefully.
“Don’t you dare blow on it”, I subtly warned.
“What?” he asked stupidly.
“Why make it hotter just to blow on it to cool it down?”
He looked at me blankly, as if this somehow hadn’t occurred to him.
“What’s the point in zapping it in the microwave if you’re making it too hot to drink?”
“Erm…” he intelligently replied.
“Don’t you dare blow on it, or slurp it” I continued, “I want to see full on sips with full on lip contact”
He did exactly that, wincing the whole time as he fought to hold the microwave-hot ceramic handle of the mug.
Even the Americans don’t do this. That’s how bad it’s got.
Right, I’m off now to start a fire in my garden so I can cook my dinner using random sticks as skewers, rather than utilise my fully loaded kitchen with gas cooker, oven, pans and utensils.
Because, you know, it’s just what I’m used to.
A rosy outlook on life
Earlier today one of the lovely ladies on reception at work offered me a small chocolate chip from her bag of granola.
Being on a diet (of sorts), I declined.
At this point she paused for a second, held it closer to me and said in the most serious face she could muster, “actually it’s a rabbit poo”.
This immediately caused me to grin and I replied with, “well in that case, I’ll have one. I prefer rabbit poo anyway as they’re more nutritious and full of fibre”.
The other lady on reception looked at me in disbelief; mouth open and nose wrinkled.
“Why are you like that?” she asked, slightly bemused.
“Like what?” I asked innocently, knowing what she meant.
“Like that; saying you’d rather eat rabbit poo”.
“Because”, I replied, “it’s funny”
What’s even funnier is the fact that I know she’s reading through my blog today.
Head In A Blender 