Three bottles of cheap red wine – £12
Doritos – £4
A full tank of fuel – £60
Takeaway pizzas – £30
Visiting my friends in Kent, eating junk food, drinking all the wine and then subsequently vomiting so violently at the end of the night that, not only did I scare my friends as I hugged the toilet screaming like a banshee, I vomited so hard I practically turned inside out and saw my feet go past at one point – priceless.
Mmm, my head feels fabulous this morning.
(sobs gently)
I was on the train this morning, minding my own business and sending messages on my phone and generally living in my own happy little world.
The train pulls into some station or another, and this guy boards and plonks himself down in the seat next to me.
After about 10 minutes I’m aware, from the corner of my eye, that he’s watching me type out my messages! Cheeky fucker.
I own a Galaxy Note 2 which is like having an LCD TV in your pocket, so it’s massive and it’s difficult not to look at it when someone whips it out…a lot like the camera crew on the set of ‘massive dongs’.
He was also furiously biting his nails, so all I could hear was the occasional loud click when he’d chipped a piece away, accompanied by heavy nostril breathing on his fingers. What was even more unnerving was the fact he wasn’t spitting any of them out (which in itself is disgusting), so this meant he was consuming them.
Basically, to him, this was the commuting version of watching a subtitled film whilst munching popcorn.
I started to wonder what his reaction would be if I started typing stuff specifically for him to read, like…
I needed to do something; his breath was starting to smell like burned hair.
I stopped off in Sainsbury’s this evening to pick up something for dinner. I was feeling the desire for chicken as I was hitting the gym tonight and figured some protein wouldn’t go amiss.
However, before I got lost in the aisles I decided to finally give some attention to my bladder who had been nudging me for the two hours like a spoiled child in a toy shop. As I can’t scream at my bladder to shut the fuck up, I decided it might be an idea to find the toilets instead. It was either that or wait until I got home, but I was bursting and I felt a sneeze coming so I didn’t think it wise to take the risk.
“Clean up on aisle three!”
I searched everywhere for the toilets which is always a great game to play when you’re capable of dousing the flames consuming an entire office block, and possibly the one next to it. It’s always so much fun playing ‘hunt the toilets’ and not at all tense, frantic and laced with seething rage.
Anyway, I eventually found them up two flights of stairs and navigated the six miles of corridors to eventually find the men’s room. It was right next to a door that read ‘staff only’; a door that I was convinced opened out to the front of the fucking supermarket, but I didn’t care at this point as my nose was starting to itch, suggesting a sneeze could be imminent.
I walked into the toilets, walked around ANOTHER corner and finally found the urinals. As I did so, the motion sensor lights came on.
‘Fair enough’, I thought to myself.
However, as the lights came on, so did the nearby hand dryer.
‘Odd’, I thought, but fuck it, who cares?
So I stood in front of the urinal with the hand dryer blowing hot air across the floor and up the wall in front of me. This all seemed less than noteworthy….that is until I started to pee. That’s when I realised this hand dryer was in fact wafting the aroma of warm piss up into my face. Yes, I was getting a full on facial blast of Eau De L’Urine that had been in my bladder for hours; fermenting and maturing like that first beefy wee of the morning.
And because my bladder had been so full I couldn’t stop the flow any more than I could stop the fucking hand dryer! Yet this bastard carried on regardless, not showing any sign of stopping anytime soon. No, it seemed to be connected to the lights so all the time I was stood there it was going to push more and more of this ammonia goodness up my nose, burning my skull from the inside.
I closed my eyes and pushed on, not daring to open my mouth for fear of tasting. I looked like a dog with it’s head out of the car window, only less happy, and less open mouthed.
Holy shit, how much more is there to come out of me? I was peeing and peeing and peeing. I could literally feel the pounds dropping off.
I eventually finished, shook my manhood carefully to avoid releasing any droplets into this face focused upward vent of piss infused nastiness, and zipped up. I then went over to the sink and washed my hands, checking my face in the mirror to see if I’d somehow turned yellow.
I hadn’t of course. What a twat.
I then turned to face my attacker, walked up to the little shit, placed my hands under the vent and it turned off.
Are you fucking taking the piss?
It’s my first day back in the office after a bank holiday weekend. Alas, I worked Saturday and Sunday but was able to do so from home. This was great because I got to email and generate reports whilst only wearing pants and maybe a sock. Strangely it’s frowned upon when I do that in the office.
So this morning I am back on a train heading towards London, contemplating a much needed nap. Then, out of nowhere, a young woman gets on and sits practically next to me talking… sorry… TALKING into her phone at great speed, without breaks or punctuation, in a language I don’t recognise.
That’s annoying.
If you’re going to disturb me and keep me awake at least have the decency to let me have a narrative I can mock you with. Instead all I have is “CHAMBO LAPAMOOPOO DIBIDO BICHEDOOFIBBLE CHOOMA WOPPY BADUMOPA LIPU”
Hmm, pick the bones out of that one Dan….
It’s ok, i can still sleep through this. I CAN sleep through this.
“WABBADONG CHIBLOFANTA MISA BILOP PLOBBLE”
Come on Dan, you can sleep through this…..(eye starts to twitch)
“BAMSA FOOGLIN JIBBY JOBTOSH BIDDYBUDCHIMCHANG”
After a couple more stations of this shit, the door opens and….oh fuck, it’s the dipstick from my previous blog https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/05/02/suited-and-unmuted/ who decides to sit right in front of me.
I wonder if stripping to my pants and sock will make them fuck off and let me sleep?
Let’s find out….
I’m sitting here listening to our calls with customers.
I think this picture sums up my thoughts.
I have WAY too much BluTac to hand….
I’m sitting on the train watching Californication (which is awesome by the way), desperately trying to drown out the two cocks sat next to me talking bollocks.
Suddenly two young, attractive women enter the carriage and take the last two seats; one of which is directly opposite me.
Result.
Or so I thought.
They’re pissed as fuck and the one opposite me is chewing her gum so loudly it sounds like a long lipped bloodhound having a drink.
And every sentence has the word “like” in it at least, like, three times.
They’re talking about auditioning for acting roles and the importance of “losing oneself in, like, a really, like, really juicy role that you can, like, lose yourself in”
I’m tempted to tell them that sucking the producer’s cock can really help.
Mind you, she IS chewing a lot of gum.
I haven’t written a blog entry in a while, mostly because work has been super busy and I’ve been sleeping on the train; head back, tongue out. Drooling optional.
So I thought I’d write an entry now despite the fact it’s past 1.30am and I’m very, very sleepy. In fact i’m fighting to stay awake so I can at least finish writing this entry.
I don’t want to fall asleep in the middle of typing a
What is with all the invites from my friends to play Candy Crush Saga on Facebook? Isn’t it basically bejewelled from, like, a million years ago?
Oh sorry, no, wait, this one has candy in it.
It amazes me just how much of a steaming shit I really don’t give.
Now, I’m suspecting this retard of a game is auto-inviting me on my friends’ behalf which is incredibly cuntsiderate, but I would rather dip my hairy coinpurse in peanut butter and release the hounds than play this candy coated cock of a game.
Having said that, I may have just discovered that half of my friends are in fact dribbling gibbons who thought it was a good idea to invite Dan because “he likes videogames”.
That’s like offering me a VHS copy of a shit 70s film because you’d heard I was a movie fan. Great, I’ll add it to my BluRay collection shall I?
And if I’ve insulted anyone who may have sent me invites to this game, then I am truly, utterly and sincerely overjoyed.
Game Over.
Ah the people I see on the train….
The mum – short, chubby and freakishly butch, neck tattoo, short cropped hair with blonde tips, gold teeth and leggings, holding a Staffordshire Bull Terrier on a studded leash.
The daughter – taller, chubby, badly drawn arm tattoo of two indecipherable names, bleached blond hair scraped back, leggings, stained vest top and holding two pushchairs full of offspring.
The son – skinny, deprived of daylight, spotty, gold earring, headphones and a vacant look in his eyes.
Stereotyping?
Me?
Never.
There’s a guy on the train this morning who is talking loudly into his phone. The reason I can hear him is because he’s the ONLY person talking loudly into his phone like a distressed seagull outside your bedroom window at 6am on a Sunday morning.
For context, he’s a young indian guy with slick gelled hair (spiky but with a comb-over at the front), a suit and tends to end a lot of his sentences with “innit” and “bruv”.
He’s going on and on and on at such an increased volume that the young woman sat next to him reading her book hasn’t turned a page for nearly 15 minutes. I’ve also noticed her knuckles have turned white.
Anyway, this bell-end is clearly talking to someone who has recently bought a new car.
At one point he jokingly asked “do know where the dipstick is?”
Yes bruv, the entire carriage knows.
Innit.
Following on from yesterday’s entry; I’ve seen another amusing thing that I simply couldn’t pass up.
This is one of many desk calendars we get from our suppliers at work, only this one has a glaringly obvious cropping issue!
I seriously can’t stop laughing!
Whilst shopping in Oxford Street today for a jacket, I walked into a clothes store that DIDN’T send the men to another floor.
No, this store actually put us men first. Can you believe it?
My favourite part of the store was the sign saying the women’s department was downstairs.
Cunningly amusing play on words, or unbelievably funny fuck up?
You decide.
As I settle down in my train seat, ready for the five and a half hour journey from Penzance to London, imagine my joy when a chavvy couple with the loudest and whiniest kids in the world sit 3 rows in front of me.
I’m such a fucking lucky bastard, I really am.
He resembles a shaved rat in a bomber jacket and baseball cap, complete with a neck tattoo and an eyebrow piercing. A gold ring of course.
She has lank, greasy hair pulled back so tight she looks like she’s suddenly sat on a upturned plug…all the time. Her clothing is way too tight for her ‘size’ which means her leggings elastic and struggling bra strap leave her resembling 3 bagels stacked on top of each other…. or are they ring doughnuts?
Probably doughnuts.
And what’s with the decibel levels here? Do they live next to a runway? Are they used to communicating through glass? The kids are very loud (and did I mention whiny?),the dad (debatable) is loud, but the mum…well, she’s talking to ratman at the same volume we reserve for nightclubs, complete with the occasional spit missiles associated with talking at such force. The windows are actually shaking and I swear I just spotted a crack appear.
The old couple next to me have turned their hearing aids OFF.
I’ve tried to drown them out with my headphones, but they keep slipping out of my bleeding ears.
Have you ever overheard someone being asked a question and wished you’d been able to answer it instead?
In The Sail Loft cafe at St. Michael’s Mount, Cornwall, I heard….
Customer – “Excuse me, do you do takeaway coffee?”
Girl in cafe – “Im sorry, no we don’t; we’re not set up for it. There is a cafe on the other side that might”
Customer – “Ok, thank you”
What I would love to have heard was…
Customer – “Excuse me, do you do takeaway coffee?”
Girl in cafe – “You can try but we’ll probably rugby tackle you to the ground”
Customer – “I’m sorry, what??”
Now wouldn’t that have been more amusing? I could’ve written a blog entry about it and everything.
I’m a gamer. And as a gamer there are moments that are a little unnerving.
For example, I’m currently playing Fallout New Vegas and I’m about to enter a huge abandoned facility that is rumoured to be overrun with radiation infested zombies similar to those in ‘I Am Legend’.
Outside the facility I find a campsite with boxes of ammunition, guns and medication. Loads of it.
That’s never a good sign.
The only thing missing is my mum…which I really could do with right now.
(gulp)
Wish me luck. I’m going in.
The guy next to me on the train right now smells like shit.
And that’s not in the context of smelling generally bad; he actually smells like actual shit, actually.
I’m starting to suspect it’s not a fresh deposit, but instead has been maturing in his pants for most of the afternoon.
Luckily he’s ready a newspaper that wafts it my way with every page turn.
So that’s nice.
Every morning when I get to the train station, I walk past the single ticket office to join the platform.
Every morning there’s a bloke standing by the ticket office chatting to the occupant behind the glass.
It’s clear they’re mates.
For context I need to explain that the guy in the ticket office is massive. I mean huge. He basically resembles a professional darts player, complete with a full on cockneyed ‘saaf Lahndan’ accent. His mate can simply be described as Ray Winstone, although he’s not.
Every morning when I walk by I catch a snippet of their conversation and it usually involves “some fucking muppet” or how the country’s going to shit. They basically put the world to rights like a couple of builders over a pint.
This morning as I approached, I noticed they were joined by a woman; a really ‘classy’ older bird with massive hoops in her ears and far too many rings. It was apparent that Ray had said something contentious as both the woman and the behemoth behind the glass were clearly not happy.
I wonder what it is today? Is it the local council? Is it the fact that today is Margaret Thatcher’s state funeral?
Nope.
As I got closer I heard something come out of the Winstone wannabe’s mouth that I didn’t expect.
He said, “yeah, they changed the animators”
What? I’m sorry, what did he just….what?
I slowed down for this one.
“Really?” said the stunned woman, as Shrek in his oversized uniform looked on with contempt, “Tom and Jerry?”
“It’s fucking disgusting. Is nuffink sacred?” said the fat controller.
“I know mate, I know”, said Ray.
I kept walking.
I’m sitting in a hotel bar right now waiting for some food I’ve ordered.
But in a place like this it’s never just food is it… no, it’s pompous wanky food with unnecessarily long and tedious descriptions.
It’s places like this that have words like compote, medley and terrine on the menu. Even the scrambled egg on toast sounded so exquisite I wanted to have sex with it.
Is this to somehow justify the inflated prices?
Would I pay £10 for a prawn cocktail?
No.
Would I pay it for saltwater Alaskan shrimp on a bed of distressed iceberg shavings, drizzled with creamy homemade Marie Rose dressing and a tickle of paprika, complimented with hand cut toasted wheatbread laced with Devon churned butter?
Fuck yeah! Here are the deeds to my house, just feed me this extravagance!
Oh, wait, it’s just prawn cocktail.
And it doesn’t end with their choice of words. Everything is delivered on a tray. Even my diet coke was delivered on a tray, complete with a posh stirrer.
Why? Is it so I can mix my diet coke with the rest of the diet coke in my glass?
I perused this minefield of Shakespearean verse called a menu and eventually decided to go for the ‘free range slivers of extra matured….’ Oh for fuck’s sake, I went for a ham sandwich.
Now, in my experience a ham sandwich is bread, butter, ham, possibly mustard and then bread. It is basically ham ‘sandwiched’ between two slices of bread. So why am I still waiting for it an hour later?
If the pig has been hand reared as a result of my order, the cows milked and the butter churned, the mustard seeds grown fresh, and the bread baked specially…then it makes sense I’d have to wait. But I suspect they’ve run out of trays in the kitchen and don’t know how to deliver my food to me any other way.
Frankly, I’m so hungry right now you could deliver it with a crossbow and I’d be happy. In pain, but happy.
Interestingly, I’ve just had a second diet coke brought to my table (on a tray, naturally) and I find myself a little disappointed it has no stirrer. If you set the bar too high, you’ll inevitably disappoint.
My sandwich finally arrives an hour and twenty minutes after I ordered it, but at least it’s a special sandwich with…. ….oh wait, no, it’s just a ham sandwich.
But it isn’t; not really. It’s three quarters of a ham sandwich. They’ve clearly managed to figure out the bread-ham-bread thing and then understandably cut it into quarters, only to give me three of them.
Where’s my quarter of a sandwich? Did you fucking eat 25% of my dinner you bastards?
It then occurred to me that maybe they give everyone 3 out of the 4 quarters of the sandwich to save money. They could effectively create a fourth ‘three quarter sandwich’ for free, provided they have three customers who order them. I bet that’s why I was left waiting for 100 fucking minutes for a fucking sandwich because these bastards were waiting for two more fucking guests to order ham fucking sandwiches.
It all makes sense now.
To add insult to injury, they’ve provided me with an unwanted handful of cress and a ramekin of crisps. A bloody ramekin of crisps! Do you realise how few crisps you can fit in a ramekin??
I didn’t even want these 7 crisps; I wanted my whole sandwich!
For what it’s worth, the sandwich is delicious, dammit.
Traversing the concourse at London Victoria station is challenging at the best of times, with people erratically crisscrossing in front of you at breakneck speed; most of whom not having the slightest clue where they’re going… but desperately trying to get in front of you to get there nonetheless.
On occasion these cretinous comets have a tail that leaves a wake of devastation behind them in the form of a fart. The sort of fart that is the result of a poorly chosen lunch with the nutritional value of a carpet sample.
All because “fuck it, it’s Friday. I’ll have another pint of bitter”.
For those of you who have seen Tron, I want you to recall the lightcycles and the wall they leave behind them. Walking into these farts have a remarkably similar effect.
Stops you dead.
Small kids don’t stand a chance.
And why can I now taste it?
I was talking to one of the guys at work this morning about music. I told him I was currently listening to Alanis Morissette’s ‘Jagged Little Pill’ album. This resulted in an awkward pause in the conversation, followed by a look from him that implied I’d grown a vagina.
“Really?” he said.
“Of course” I replied, “It has to rate up there as one of the top 10 albums of all time”
“Hmm, I only know that one song of hers” he continued.
“Which one’s that?”
“That one that made her famous”
Well, at least he wasn’t being vague.
I then proceeded to hum a few tunes from the album, all of which resulted in a “oh, I know that one!”
10 seconds later Alanis Morissette came on the radio.
Isn’t that Ironic, don’t you think?
Head In A Blender 