An announcement just came over the speakers at Watford station to say that train doors may close up to 30 seconds before the train is due to depart. As a result it is advisable to be on the platform in plenty of time for your train.
These speakers are ON the platform.
There’s a guy on this train sat a few seats behind me somewhere who sounds like Kermit the frog.
How unfortunate for him. Well, unless he’s a children’s entertainer or an actual frog. He could be either; I can’t see him from here.
All I know is he sounds like Kermit.
I don’t envy him at all. I feel lucky I don’t have that voice.
Not being jealous is easy; simple. It’s a walk in the park. Uncomplicated and not problematic in any way.
Being jealous however is completely different because, as everyone knows, it’s not easy being green.
This morning I was walking behind a guy with badly drawn tattoos of ‘Only God Can’ on the back of his left forearm, and ‘Judge Me’ on his right.
I disagree.
I wake up most mornings between 6am and 6:45am, depending on whether my alarm clocks (plural) do an effective job at waking the dead. I tend to leave the house around 7:15am and suffer the tedious commute into London every day by train.
You may have noticed.
I navigate the multidirectional London crowds, endure the hot and sweaty tube (which is the London Underground and not the duty of a bored housewife), walk the streets of London and arrive at work around 8:55am. When I say “Good morning” to the girls behind reception I clear my throat beforehand because it’s usually the first time i’ve spoken that day.
Well, this morning whilst crammed on the tube I had a woman fall into me when the train stopped abruptly. She turned to me, somehow surprised that Newton’s law of motion had actually applied to her despite not securing her footing or holding onto a pole like the rest of us, and apologised.
Without thinking, and without throat clearage, I said “that’s alright” in what has to be the best Mickey Mouse impersonation I think i’ve ever heard.
Bollocks.
I have a fear of spiders.
I don’t care that everyone knows. I’m a 6ft tall, heavily tattooed man and I’m scared of teeny tiny eight legged beasties.
I can’t bring myself to pick one up if my life depended on it, instead resorting to the old ‘pint glass and envelope’ technique; followed up with moving through the house at great speed screaming “open the door/window quick quick quick QUICK QUICK!!”.
As you can see, I’m very butch and manly about it.
Mind you, in my defence, house spiders are big fuckers.
Anyway, yesterday I decided to attack my front garden which had grown to Jumanji proportions; towering above my kitchen window and plunging it in darkness. I knew something had to be done when I realised that recently I always seemed to be cooking at night, no matter what time of day it was.
So I donned some heavy duty gardening gloves, hired a local jungle guide called UmBongo*, messaged my family to tell them I love them and ventured out into the leafy unknown.
It’s obvious that as soon as you start to uproot all sorts of flora and fauna the local wildlife will scarper like chavs in Poundland, but never before have I seen so many different sizes and shapes of spiders in such a small area in such a short space of time.
Did I squeal like a girl and cry for my mum?
Nope.
For some reason, because I had heavy duty gloves on, I somehow felt a bit invincible. I even had the little shits crawling over my flip flopped feet and I simply brushed them away like I was channelling Chuck Norris.
This reminded me of those times when I was a kid trying to get to sleep and hearing a noise or creak in the darkness of my bedroom. I was shit scared and hid under the covers (with a little gap for oxygen of course) because that was somehow enough to protect me from a burglar, a monster or a fuck off massive chainsaw.
As I think back I realise how daft it was to think a duvet would protect me. How could a little bit of material make an appropriate barrier to the nastiness outside?
And yet here I was, a full grown man, with ‘magic gloves’, providing a lack of fear of anything with more limbs than me.
Except Tarantulas.
Definitely not Tarantulas.
Tarantulas can fuck off.
Seriously.
* Not true. As if I’d have a guide named after a popular children’s beverage that’s too orangey for crows….his name was actually Neville**
** Also not true
“Get back!”
What the fuck?
“Get back!!”
The train guard was shouting through the closed doors of our train at a commuter on the platform who I assume was trying to board.
The doors were shut and you know what that means; the guard now had the undeserved authority to be a prick about it.
I then heard the guard open the doors and shout, “Get back!! This train is ready to depart!!”, and then promptly close the doors.
Hang on, why didn’t he just let the guy on?
Oh yeah, because he’s a prick.
Of course.
A line had been crossed…and it was yellow.
Tonight I had to collect a package from the post office that couldn’t be delivered to my house.
I can only assume it was too large to fit through my letterbox, or the postman is a complete bastard.
It could go either way.
Anyway, I was stood in line waiting to collect my parcel when a short fat guy in a shirt and tie came in and almost immediately started talking to the slim and pretty girl in the queue behind me.
“Hello stranger!”, he said.
“Oh hi, how are you?”, she replied in a tone that suggested she knew him from work but didn’t really socialise with him, possibly because they’re in different departments, but probably because she just didn’t want to.
“I’m good thanks, how are things?”, he continued.
“Yeah good, good”.
Pause.
“So how’s things?”
Which is pretty much the same question she asked the first time around.
“Yeah, you know; picking up a parcel”, he said, waving his post office slip.
“Me too” said the girl.
What were the chances they’d both be picking up parcels!? I mean, here; of all places!!?
Anyway, there was a short pause that lasted an eternity before she broke the silence.
“The weather’s been lovely hasn’t it?”
“Yeah it’s been really good”, he said enthusiastically; “really nice”.
And that was it. They didn’t utter a single word again.
Awkward.
By the way, the parcel WAS small enough for my letterbox.
Git.
Sat on the train and the prick at the next table starts talking into his phone very loudly. In fact it was at such a decibel level he startled the woman sat opposite him.
She actually jumped. Nearly dropped her book.
He was talking some bollocks about “the Siemens innovation contract” and “regarding the agreed SLA following the action points from the meeting”.
What a penis.
Just then the woman sat NEXT to the startled woman fires up a conversation on her phone.
It’s weird to think that 15 years ago seeing two people sat at a table on a train and talking meant they we’re having a conversation with EACH OTHER. In fact the only communication happening between two people in this carriage was between me and the jumpy bookworm who exchanged a look best described as ‘is this really fucking happening?’
Anyway, just as my eyes were starting to ache from all the rolling, the woman opposite me picked up her phone and joined in!
Really?
So let me get this right…the ONLY three people talking loudly into their phones in this full and quiet carriage are in fact sat around me?
Brilliant.
I can’t tell you the joy and elation when we entered a tunnel. It was emotional.
I spied a grin from behind a book.
Can someone please explain to me why 3G connectivity and phone signal gets progressively shittier the closer to London my train gets?
What is the deal with that?
Maybe it’s because London is such a small little town with very few mobile phone masts. Who knows?
Having been an ‘Orange’ network subscriber for many years, I was transferred to the new ‘EE’ network, which I believe stands for ‘Everything Everywhere’. It should be rebranded to ‘Nothing Anywhere’ or ‘NA’, which is ironically appropriate.
I swear these wanker networks turned 3G effectiveness down to make the new 4G network appear better and faster.
Luckily for me I don’t try and occupy my time on the train with the likes of Facebook. I mean, could you imagine how annoying that would be? Pages taking forever to refresh, status updates not updating, posts having to be drafted 5 times because they keep disappearing due to ‘no network connectivity’.
Yeah, thankfully I don’t have to put up with that shit.
In fact, come to think of it, my commute into work is always easy and uneventful.
This evening at Victoria station could have been described as bedlam. Or, alternatively, bat shit crazy with a massive dose of dumb fuckery.
Basically there had been a power cut and the electronic display boards (that tell the sheep which platform their train will be departing from) weren’t working properly. By this I mean they were ON, but not displaying anything except ‘please listen for announcements’; a big issue for display boards methinks.
I soon realised this when I’d spied a small, aggressive, uniformed woman stood at the front of the bleating flock with far too much power and a megaphone.
Despite this, a lot of the sheep were still stood under the undisplaying boards, looking up with dead eyes and mouths agape, expecting the magic orange words to change from ‘please listen for announcements’ to which platform they needed to be herded to. A lot of them were drooling.
Baa….
I stood amongst the dumb flocks and waited for little Miss Megaphone to point us in the right direction. She kept talking into her radio and I wondered if she was calling in a couple of sheepdogs in high vis jackets to get the masses to their platforms. Maybe the megaphone was reserved for whistles and the occasional “good boy!”.
I hoped so.
Alas, she pointed it at the crowd, pressed the trigger and cleared her throat. The old woman next to her jumped so hard her teeth fell out.
Ok, not quite…but she could’ve cleared her throat quietly BEFORE using the amplification qualities of this vocal menace.
*KRRKT!*
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
*KRRKT!*
A few of the sheep looked down from the undisplays, closed their mouths and wiping away their drool to focus on what she had to say.
*KRRKT!*
“PLEASE BE AWARE THAT DUE TO A POWER CUT EARLIER TODAY THE BOARDS ARE NOT DISPLAYING ANY PLATFORM INFORMATION… !”
*KRRKT!*
She then began to list off all the upcoming trains and their platforms. A lot of the sheep amazingly ignored her and looked back up at the undisplay boards, resuming their open mouthed drooling. The floor was becoming shiny.
Baa…
*KRRKT!*
“THE HORSHAM TRAIN WILL BE DEPARTING FROM PLATFORM 17”
“Excuse me” interrupted a small woman.
*KRRKT!*
“YES?”
“Aargh!”
“Sorry… yes?”
“Is this the Horsham train?”, asked the woman pointing to platform 17.
“Yes it is.”, said the unamplified harbinger of trains.
“Thankyou”. As she trotted off I saw her ask another guard which train was stood at platform 17.
Brilliant.
If it’s not displayed in orange and black then the seed of doubt starts to grow. What is wrong with people? Are we that reliant on technology that we don’t trust a person? Who do you think supplies the (un)display boards with information in the first place? R2-fucking-D2?
Typically my train was the only one running late. This resulted in more blank, drooling stares at the boards as if somehow the megaphoned harpy or the constant audio announcements were somehow misinformed.
Baa…
Finally my train was announced and the flock surged forward, being filtered through the barriers like sheep through a dip.
Baa…
Some of us slipped.
Whilst in Tesco this morning I saw a member of staff stocking the salad shelves.
This guy was massive; I mean HUGE.
Ah the irony.
It’s been a while since I’ve blogged anything…and this is primarily due to being in Las Vegas for the last week or so.
Never a bad thing.
The main reason for the visit was a stag do, but this soon became one of two reasons as my trip was extended so I could spend time with a gorgeous woman I’d met on my last visit back in March.
Despite the fact we’d emailed a lot, facebooked a lot and Skyped a lot, whenever I told people why I was extending my trip it was always met with a big twatty grin, eyebrows on bungee ropes and comments like “wahey!”, “I just bet you are!” and “get in there sunshine!”
These were sometimes accompanied with a nudging elbow to the ribs.
But I’m not going to into that (pun intended?)
So anyway…
Whilst on the stag do we were stood in the hotel discussing the toilet facilities in America; particularly how wide the gap is between the stall doors and the stall itself.
See https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2012/12/11/bathroom-rage/
It was at this point that one of the guys said, “I know; it makes it almost impossible to have a wank”.
I laughed so violently I actually needed to visit these generously gapped rooms of self relief myself!
His answer was worryingly quick and casual.
And to think I shook his hand at the end of the trip.
This morning I woke up at 06:52am. This is a problem when you need to be out of the house at 07:15am and I still needed to have a shower, shave, brush my teeth, style my hair, get dressed and make myself some lunch. It’s also a little concerning as my alarm clocks (yes, clocks; plural) go off around 6am. Oops.
If the house had been on fire and I was under attack from ninjas I still wouldn’t have moved as fast as I did when I realised the time. I was quick. Very quick. At one point I passed a Coyote in a slingshot holding an anvil.
I made it out of the house at 07:18am. Not bad.
Meep meep!
I then drove at breakneck speed to the station. Well, it was at a speed that made me want to break the neck of the bell-end driving the car in front of me at 21 miles per hour.
I finally made it to the station with about 3 minutes to spare and I was faced with a decision; buy my weekly ticket now, or at London Victoria. Hmm….
There was a dithering twat of a woman at the ticket office, laughing that she “simply can’t find my purse in here! Ha ha ha!”
Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Hilarious. No really, please continue. Take your time. I can’t get enough of your cripplingly funny shit.
So I thought, fuck it; I’ll buy my ticket at Victoria.
The train pulled in, I got on, sat down and revelled in watching the dithering twat almost miss the train. She made it. Shame.
The journey was the usual social scene; complete silence whilst staring at a small screens and desperately trying to ignore the annoying fucker talking on her phone. In fact, it was this annoying fucker…..https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/blooble-fabwa-sibbladoo/
I really have to pick a different carriage….or just punch her in the face.
We finally pulled into London Victoria and I made my way to the ‘customers needing to pay additional fares’ desk. It should be called ‘customers who tried to pull a fast one, realised there were automated gates and now have to reluctantly pay for a ticket which they will say was from the station just before Victoria’.
I shamefully joined the queue of people like we were waiting outside the headmaster’s office, feeling the judging eyes of all the other commuters as they passed by. The people in front of me were taking forever to buy their tickets which I thought was odd. It then dawned on me pretty fucking quickly that they weren’t simply buying excess fares. No, they were haggling for the cheapest way of paying for the journey they’ve just done.
No rush folks, I don’t have a job to get to.
The woman commuter at the desk had a ticket for off peak travel and hadn’t realised it wouldn’t let her through the barriers at 08:30am in the morning, in central London, on a Monday. I could see her confusion. This is the sort of woman who needs to ensure her Vagisil and Colgate are kept in separate rooms.
“I didn’t realise I couldn’t use this ticket”. Yes you did, now fuck off.
She continued to argue this for a good two or three minutes, as if somehow it would change the circumstances. At this rate we were going to hit off peak travel times. This could’ve been incredibly frustrating if you were someone worried about being late for work. Not me though, I had aaaaaaaaall the time in world.
The guy that followed her wasn’t any better.
“I’ve come from Gatwick, but I’m here to see my brother, so I need to get to Kensington, but my ticket from Gatwick was a staff ticket, so I need the cheapest ticket to see him and then I’ll be coming back, but that will be today, but tomorrow I’m with my brother at his flat, so do I need an oyster card? I basically need to get back, but the ticket I’ve got isn’t valid on the times I need to be out of my brother’s place”.
I’m sorry, what?
The massive Nigerian train guard behind the glass looked right through this little man with a stare that sat somewhere between utter contempt and not giving a shit. It was a beautifully crafted look and one I plan to master myself. He clearly gets this kind of idiocy all the time.
Where’s that dithering twat from earlier? I’m feeling a bit punchy.
I was sat on the train for a mere 10 seconds when I heard a sound in front of me that caught my attention.
It was a fast paced squelchy noise that sounded like a furiously masturbating gibbon. Or at least how I imagined an intensely self indulging primate may sound, IF that was something I’d try to imagine.
Which I wouldn’t.
Because that would be weird.
So I looked around to see what was causing it, hoping not to see an ape having a tug, furious or otherwise.
There, sat two seats in front of me, was a large man who resembled a massive shaved orangutan (Ooh, I nearly called it with gibbon!). He had his little finger in his ear and was doing that fast paced jiggling action that could be either an attempt to scratch an itch that’s further down the canal than he could reach, or an earful of water.
The sound of monkey wank suggested the latter. I HOPED It was the latter, otherwise what was causing all that squelch?
So I watched him as he was really going for it and his size suggested it was the most exercise he’d had in, well, ever.
After a vigorous and very audible squelching he pulled out his little finger and looked at it.
What is he…?
Oh no.
No.
Don’t do it.
Please don’t do it!
…
…
…
– sniff –
He did it.
Yuck.
This morning, as I do every morning, I prepared my lunch for the day.
And whilst making my relatively ordinary sandwich I discovered I was almost out of mustard.
Right, onto the shopping list it goes.
I then discovered my brother had edited the last entry.
Brilliant.
There’s a worldwide unwritten rule that men don’t sit down to pee.
Ever.
I can’t actually remember at what age I stopped sitting, but the act of standing up and draining the lizard rates up there as one of the defining moments of becoming a man; alongside losing my virginity and being in charge of my first barbeque.
Over the years I’ve discovered there are three occasions that I feel allow us to be exempt from this unwritten rule without fear of ridicule, mocking and generally being called a girl.
Here are my three exceptions to the rule:
When you’re drunk
It’s a well known fact that being drunk renders most of us virtually incapable of performing more than one task at a time. Usually the primary focus is the simple act of standing up, and yet we can still fuck that up; often spectacularly. So, standing AND aiming is a logistical impossibility and something us men simply daren’t attempt. It’s easy in the street because a wall (or car, or bus shelter, or police officer) isn’t a particularly small target, whereas a toilet can be. And if you’re 6ft tall like me, it’s like trying to hit a thimble…from space. The only real risk with sitting down and peeing whilst drunk is comfort. It’s likely you’ll simply pass out and wake up on the floor with your trousers around your ankles and your integrity in the bin.
When it’s dark
This one screams of common sense. I remember years ago sharing a hotel room with a friend (twin beds I hasten to add) and in the middle of the night he got up, went to the toilet, switched on the light (waking me up), said “fuck!” when his retinas burned out of his skull, pissed on the floor anyway because he couldn’t see, then stumbled back to his bed and promptly missed. I used to do the same to be honest. I used to attempt to combat this by doing the ‘one eye open and one eye closed’ approach. This was cunning as I’d switch the light on and I could see where I was aiming with one eye, and then when I switched the light off to go back to bed I would transfer to the other eye that still had night vision. Genius. Opening both eyes at this point is weird though. Try it. Then one night common sense came for what the Americans call ‘a sleepover’ and I had the ultimate epiphany; just sit down. No harsh light, no losing valuable night vision, no blue/green blob in your line of sight that looks like an alien attacking the Enterprise when you stumble back to bed….and no having to aim. Again, the only real risk here is the same comfort as when drunk. Try not to fall back to sleep.
When you’re horny
The best way to describe trying to pee whilst in this state is a lot like trying to hold down loose tarpaulin in a hurricane. Just when you think you’ve got it, you haven’t. It’s messy, difficult, and often uncomfortable and we end up standing like a duck with our arse sticking out trying to get ‘the right angle’. Just sit down. SO much easier. For those of you who haven’t considered this before; beware. It’s likely you’ll still douse the bathroom floor through the gap between the toilet and the lid.
Classic rookie error.
Soon you’ll discover the ‘sit and hook’ method. You’ll end up sitting a bit forward on the toilet, but chances are you’re on your phone anyway leaning on your knees (possibly reading this right now) so what does it matter? I was overjoyed when Justin Timberlake’s character in ‘Friends With Benefits’ did the sit and hook. Good man JT.
—
Now, these three exceptions to the rule of peeing like a man have been with me for years. Nothing else made it onto the list; it was Drunk, Dark or Horny, no exceptions. You could have all sorts of shit on your hands or have a broken leg and it will still be considered a bit girly if you sit.
That is, until now.
Now there is a fourth rule.
Rule Four
You are excused from touching your penis if your hands have come in contact with chillies.
(I’ll let you take a moment for that to sink in….I fucking did!)
In my case I’d finely chopped three bags of bird eye chillies. What followed was a sensation not unlike getting a blowjob from the Balrog, and luckily* doesn’t go away anytime soon. Even if I’d taken my blog’s name literally I still don’t think it wouldn’t have been as bad. Sitting down was an adventure and I’d even contemplated dipping myself into a glass of milk.
So, exception number four is chillies. And probably Deep Heat.
*sarcasm, in case you hadn’t noticed
This evening I saw a man pick up half a cigarette off the floor and go one step further than https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/10-second-rule/
This man that wasn’t a tramp or a homeless person begging for change, but a regular well dressed man with a plastic bag full of fresh shopping.
He walked about 10 feet, put the shoe flattened cigarette in his mouth and I promptly threw up.
Ok, that’s not entirely true… but yuck nonetheless.
I saw something this evening that was both amusing and adorable.
Let me start with a question…
If you saw an article of clothing fall out of a stranger’s rucksack as they walked by and they hadn’t noticed, would you pick it up and run after them?
I think most people would.
I would.
Well that’s exactly what I saw happen this evening as I was walking to the tube station. Only, on this occasion the stranger was a London jogger.
For the uninitiated, a London jogger tends to be quicker than a regular jogger. This evolution of speed has adapted itself over the years so the LJ can nimbly negotiate the cruel and unrelenting London traffic (and the types of dawdling twats you only get on the pavements of this fine city) like Lycra clad urban ninjas.
So anyway, this jogger ran by and something fell out of her rucksack onto the floor. The LJ hadn’t noticed and continued running.
A woman bent down, picked up the scarf type item and called out to the LJ, but she couldn’t hear through the music she was listening to on her headphones.
“This will be interesting”, I thought.
I slowed down, naturally.
The woman then decided to run after the LJ waving this article of clothing as if somehow the flapping of material would create enough breeze to alert the runner.
It didn’t.
I looked away briefly to cross the road as I didn’t want to get hit by a car (I’m no urban ninja) and when I looked back she was still running after the LJ, a further 50 metres up the street! You’ve got to respect her resilience!
She finally caught up with the runner, handed her the scarf (or whatever it was) and then proceeded to bend over and pant like a knackered dog. The LJ was rubbing her back and saying what looked like “are you ok?”
It’s moments like these that lift my spirits; not only because it’s funny, but because it renews my faith in people.
That is until I encounter the inevitable pricks on the tube.
I’ve just seen a guy miss his train.
Was he running late, or dashing like a madman? No, he was actually early.
He was stood on the platform, headphones in his ears and reading the morning paper; positioned right at the very end of the platform, presumably to get on at the front of the train.
The train pulled in, everyone got on and the train pulled out. The thing is, the train had pulled in about 20 feet short of where he was standing, so he hadn’t seen or heard it.
He was about to.
As the train started to leave it trundled slowly past him. It was at this point he put the newspaper under his arm and prepared himself to board. It had then dawned on him this train wasn’t slowing down, it was speeding up.
He looked around, checking the boards, glaring at his watch and strutting around frantically as if it was somehow someone else’s fault.
No mate, you really did just stand there like a twat and watch it leave all by yourself.
I think I may have seen one of the passengers waving at him.
I’ve noticed that people who wear headphones fall into two very distinct camps; those who just sit there listening to the music, and those who dance. Now, when I say dance, I don’t mean literally strutting their funky stuff in the street or outside public toilets (those people are in a completely different camp of their own, complete with high gates and heavy medication).
No, I’m referring to those who move ever so slightly to the music; either slaloming their head from side to side for R&B, or nodding along to rock like they’re sucking off an ant. If you look closely enough it’s often possible to see them mouthing the words. I don’t mean full on singing; just mouthing. The ones who sing are mentally unhinged and need avoiding at all costs.
I had one of these singing idiots in a gym once; just him and me. He was lifting these heavy weights and grunting (as you do), and then in between sets he was singing tonelessly along to something in a high drawn out wailing voice. It was like working out with Moby fucking Dick.
The last two words there were intentional.
But back to the dancing…
Being a headphone user myself I fall into the ‘dancer’ category. I often find myself moving my head to the ‘riddim’ and occasionally mouthing the words. I’m even guilty of walking along the pavement in time to the music like some obnoxious musical, half expecting those around to suddenly fall in behind me for a big dance number.
Why do I do this? What do I think I look like?
Actually, I think I look cool.
People look at me and I can see they’re thinking “Wow, that guy really knows his music, and he’s got rhythm. Look, he even knows the words. He’s SO cool”. I’m cultured, hip and simply awesome.
However, when other people do it they look like total pricks.
Weird.
Head In A Blender 