When a morning at work is this bad it’s probably best not to have blu tac lying around!
Senseless violence…
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Category Archives: Humour
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I’ve had a work email this morning from a Joanne King.
I simply replied “You’ve got to be JoKing”
Was that a bit immature?
Cheesy feat
Has anyone ever used one of those Ped Eggs?
For the uninitiated it’s basically a genius little egg shaped piece of hollow plastic with one side that resembles a mini cheese grater. It’s designed to go one step further than a pumice stone by safely shaving off the dead and hard skin from your feet; collecting the detritus inside the hollow egg so it can be emptied into a bin later. Clever huh?
They’re actually very effective.
What I find a little distressing is that they produces a beige dust remarkably similar to finely grated parmesan.
Tastes the same too.
Music or mucas?
I assumed the guy who sat down next to me on the train was listening to rock on his headphones as there was a distinct weird tinny hissy noise coming from him
I’ve just realised it’s the sound of him breathing out through his stupid fat nose.
It’s not just Llamas
When us guys approach a toilet we all do something, other than freeing the beast, prior to dousing the porcelain…
We spit.
Why is this?
Maybe it’s our way of marking our territory, as if pissing an aching bladderful all over it isn’t enough somehow! At first I thought it was just me, but i’ve observed in public urinals that every bloke does it. And no, i’m not some sort of Pee-ping Tom…I’m just observant.
Let’s be honest, I’ve based my whole blog on that fact!
And we don’t stop at one spit, oh no. We spit at least once more during the perfomance and usually once again at the end. Do we have an excess of saliva we don’t need? Are we honing our aim for something? Maybe the urinal plug should be shaped like a dart board.
Also, it’s demeaning enough to the toilet that we piss all over it, but to spit on it too is just adding insult to injury. An abbatoir worker doesn’t kick a sheep in the balls after they’ve slaughtered it, do they?
I’ve asked women if they spit and i’ve been told they don’t. Ever. But come to think of it, neither do I when it’s a sit down performance. I can only speculate that it’s the same for other guys (i’m not a Poo-ping Tom!).
I wonder if this is because, on a subconscious level, i’m worried the potential splashback could result in it coming back up and hitting me? No one should ever go through the rest of their day having spat on their own ass. If anything, we should be spitting on other people’s asses.
Ah, this might explain the need to hone our aim.
Zzzzzz….huh?
This morning I overslept.
In fact, I woke up precisely 57 minutes later than I’m supposed to leave the house. This was not a good start to my day.
I opened my eyes, realised it was 7:57am and bolted upright in bed to utter my first word of the day;
“Shit!”
I promptly followed this with “shit shit shit” and “how the fuck did that happen?”; although why I didn’t just ‘think’ it is beyond me as my girlfriend had already gone to work at 5am and I was alone. There was no one there to appreciate my BAFTA winning performance of a guy who’s going to be seriously late for work.
But was I to blame? Well this is the weird part.
I checked the alarm settings on my clocks (yes, clocks; plural) and they were both set correctly. I thought that maybe I’d snoozed them to death, but they were still showing as having not actually ‘gone off’ yet, despite them being set for 6am and 6:05am. Strange.
Maybe fate has something in store for me today. Or maybe fate has prevented me from some disaster that would’ve befallen me had I followed my usual morning routine. Maybe the headline ‘commuter snaps and beats man to death with his own hands, repeatedly screaming “stop hitting yourself!”‘ will never get printed.
These are all things I pondered in the shower whilst I washed myself at speeds unmeasured by today’s technology. My arms were a virtual blur and the water was turning to a fine mist.
I was most annoyed when, whilst drying myself at the same speed and causing my towel to catch fire twice, I heard one of my Judas alarm clocks kick off from the bedroom.
You have got to be shitting me.
I managed to leave the house at 8:30am which was pretty good and briskly walked to the bus stop that would take me to the train station which would take me to the tube station that would get me to work.
I decided not to walk to my usual station this morning because it’s snowing, there are no direct trains after 8:44am and my new shoes are tearing my heels an new asshole each. So a bus into the main station in town it is.
Right now fate wasn’t impressing me.
The roads were gridlocked due to last minute car commuters and school runs, which meant that my bus was painfully late. If only there wasn’t one adult and one child per car we may have got moving a little quicker. The words ‘car pool’ came to mind. Mind you, so did ”common sense’ and ‘birth control’.
The bus finally arrived and it was packed solid with children screaming and crying, and these small pockets of adults ignoring them desperately (who I later learned are referred to as parents). In fact the only adults keeping an eye on the children were the non parents who had looks of trepidation and self righteous judgement in equal measures.
When one of these ‘parents’ decided to talk to their cherubs it was clear how much love they had for their offspring, particularly one woman who was missing a few teeth, some patches of hair, some brain cells and who was clearly a Spandau Ballet fan; “Oi Hadley! (yes, Hadley) Oi Hadley, will you and Jayden sit down and shut up!”.
Loving.
But for authenticity its important to point out that certain words were pronounced differently;
Down = pronounced Dayan
Shut = pronounced Shart
It was not only her, but her mother who basically looked like an older and fatter version, with a few more stains on her velour tracksuit…and a beard.
Usually this bus is so blissfully empty and quiet.
Fate was starting to piss me off.
I got to the station, boarded a train and prepared for the utter fuckwit that will inevitably sit opposite me.
It took three stops until he got on with a female friend. I knew it was just a friend because, well…he would only have women as friends if you know what I mean. He looked like a cross between Wally from ‘Where’s Wally?’ and Doctor Who himself Matt Smith. Add to this an extremely plummy voice and ridiculous little round glasses. He also talked really loud with his equally plummy ‘friend’ and was quite abrupt and intrusive in his questions and statements. I dont think he had any malice, he just didn’t have any etiquette filters. This was confirmed when he started going through her phone.
Maybe we should publish a new book called ‘Where’s Wanker?’. It would be quite easy though as he finds you.
Fate, you can kiss my asshole…all three of them.
Apple juice
Another eccentric on the train. This time it’s a guy with OCD (or, as they like to call it, CDO because it’s in the correct alphabetical order)
He sat down, looking a little like Elton John complete with ear studs, a scarf tucked under his shirt, a tweed pinstripe jacket and a glass of wine. I could be wrong though; it could be a glass of his own piss.
After settling into his seat (right opposite me!), he got out his iPad.
So far, so normal.
He then got out a packet of wet wipes which he used to meticulously clean the surface area of his iPad until it was fingerprint free. Then he pulled out a packet of tissues (with balm) and dried off the excess wet wipe wetness.
Whilst he was lovingly and delicately massaging his tablet I couldnt help but wonder just how he got this piece of kit, that he clearly adores, so dirty and smudgy.
Actually, that’s a lie. I had a pretty good idea how.
Yuck.
Anyway, this cleaning and preening process happened twice more.
Once he was done he then clipped his tablet into a keyboard so it now resembled a laptop. This begs the question; why not just get a bloody laptop? They cost about the same and the iPad can’t do half the things a laptop can do, so why try and use it like one?
I’m very aware that iPad users will want to argue this, but let’s face facts; they’re wrong.
It’s like having carrot sticks instead of chips in an attempt to be healthier, and then deep frying them anyway.
He’s still touching the screen and not even using the keyboard. And to make things even more ludicrous, he keeps stopping to wipe and dry.
I think he’s taking the piss…or certainly drinking it.
To blog or not to blog?
Today, whilst eating lunch at work, I was sat opposite one of the girls I work with and she asked if I’d posted anything new on my blog since the tale of the bastard paving stone.
I had to think.
Erm….No.
She looked a little disappointed. Then again it could’ve been indigestion.
This got me thinking. What do I blog about if I have nothing of interest to say? Do I simply post a narrative of the inane and uninteresting elements of my tedious day just so people have something to read?
No, that’s not me. I prefer to write about experiences and observations that amuse or frustrate me to the point of having an embolism…or snotting up my tea mid swallow.
Then again, if I don’t blog anything for a while will readers tire of my shit and focus their short attention spans elsewhere? Am I at a risk of simply repeating myself over and over again just to ‘flesh out’ this awesomely superb blog?
Hmm.
Also, if I don’t blog anything for a while will readers tire of my shit and focus their short attention spans elsewhere? Am I at a risk of simply repeating myself over and over again just to ‘flesh out’ this awesomely superb blog?
You tell me.
So I thought about today and wondered; do people really want to know about the suspicious white scum that collected on the top of my coffee this morning because I used sweeteners instead of sugar?
And what about the 8 ply toilet seat I’d fashioned from an entire bog roll because I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the seat that had a pube on it when I entered the toilet?
And surely watching colleagues smash free company-bought pizza into their faces, causing the walls, floors, ceilings and faces to be smeared in a detritus of mushrooms, pepperoni and sweetcorn whilst I looked on eating my fucking delicious fucking healthy fucking chicken fucking salad isn’t something my readers want to know about?
Mind you, I did see someone with some ham in their hair; that was funny. Although not as funny as the moronic theory that eating an entire punnet of grapes will somehow make up for the pizza because it’s ‘healthy’.
That’s like telling your girlfriend she’s got really fat and then, because you made her cry, buying her a cake to say sorry.
No, I’m sorry, I won’t do it. I won’t just write something because I feel that I should. I want my blogs to inspire, educate and motivate; or at the very least take your mind off your own tedious day.
So if you want to ask when my next blog entry will be, then so be it. It’s not like I crave attention or anything.
Wet walk
It’s clearly been raining through the night as the ground was still quite wet during my early morning walk to the train station. At least it wasnt raining so I’ll stay nice and dry.
Imagine the joy I felt as I walked under a tree where it still seemed to be raining heavily. One can only assume this is due to the bastard water retention in the bastard leaves. As a result I got a massive drip in the face and one down the back of my neck. There are top darts players and snipers out there who couldn’t have achieved such ball-twitching accuracy.
I hadn’t walked more than 10 feet, whilst cursing the tree, when I stood on a loose paving stone that shot a gallon of refreshingly cold rainwater up and over the lower half of my trousers, dousing my shoes which have the water resistant properties of tissue found in wedding invitations.
Awesome. My feet were too warm and dry anyway.
It’s going to be one of those days.
King of the swingers
In my time as a commuter I’ve grown to dislike certain types of people.
For those of you who have read most of my previous blog entries will know this to be true.
There is, however, a type of commuter who makes me as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; particularly when I’m walking behind them.
The arm swingers.
These are almost always (although not exclusive to) women.
I’m not being sexist here; I’m simply making an observation. In much the same way I could observe that a majority of the world’s comedians are almost always men and a majority of these comedians’ suffering (and material) is almost always women. See…not sexist.
Anyway, allow me describe an arm swinger.
These fuckers, whilst walking, tend to swing their arms back and forth in a manner synonymous with the Queen’s guard. However, unlike the Queen’s guard, they also tend to swing their arms out at a 45 degree angle which only serves to take out small children, midgets and my balls.
A bit like the walk adopted by overly camp cabin crew strutting through an airport terminal.
Seriously. These people are the testicles’ natural enemy and need to be stopped (arm swingers, not camp cabin crew as I hear the latter can be incredibly considerate).
It’s at its worst when the arm swinger has a bag on one of her shoulders (yes, ‘her’). It somehow forces the unladen arm up to an almost horizontal position in which she is practically clotheslining my sack.
Is she somehow hoping to smash the squidgy softness of my gonads, hoping for the inevitable curt and high pitched whimper? Surely they must realise that mothers are walking past them looking around wondering where their kids are. If these sadistic Sallys turned around they’d see the trail of kiddie carnage and full grown men groaning, writhing and clutching their faces and groins respectively.
I’ve tried to pass these women many a time and failed. It’s like trying to casually negoitiate spinning helicopter blades, or charity collectors in the street.
Not so personal stereo
Sat on the train waiting for it to leave London Victoria station with my headphones in and playing a game on my phone.
A woman sits opposite me, also with headphones in, and we exchange a glance that suggests a mutual appreciation of music on the move; or it could’ve been ‘what the fuck are you looking at pal?’
I’ve never been great at picking up these subtleties.
Anyway, no more than a minute had passed when the man sat next to her tapped her on the shoulder and gestured that she should turn her music down.
I took out my right earphone just in case she kicked off, which I didn’t want to miss. Plus it’ll give me something funny to blog. Alas, all I heard her say, with a smile, was “of course, no problem”.
Damn.
She then rolled her eyes, stood up, muttered ‘prick’ and moved to the next carriage.
‘Thank you’, I thought, as I turned my music down.
Do iPhone users have smaller penises?
Almost a month ago I did the unspeakable and ditched Apple to join Android.
(pauses for dramatic effect)
Yes ladies and gentlemen it’s true. I remember a few short months ago checking the Internet daily, waiting for the rumoured announcement of the iPhone 5 to be confirmed. I’d heard it was going to be bigger, faster and more impressive.
Unfortunately, once the device had been announced and plastered all over the WWW, it turned out to be as disappointing as taking home a girl with a prominent Adams apple.
The phone was indeed bigger; by about a finger’s width.
It was indeed faster; which I neither care about or really noticed.
It wasn’t more impressive. In fact, it was the same. Oh sorry, ‘it was taller’.
Oooooh!
I must admit though, I was a little worried at making the switch at first because, like every iPhone user, I was concerned about the ‘lack of apps’ in Google’s Play store. But when you consider that Android has almost 1 million apps it’s safe to say that I was being a bit of a penis about that.
My girlfriend had also decided to shift to Android a few months earlier after hearing me repeatedly going on and on about why Apple sucked and she was loving her new phone. She’d opted for the Samsung Galaxy SIII, which I have to say is pretty awesome, and after having played with her phone and all the apps and widgets it was clear this was the way forward.
So in December I got my brand spanking new Samsung Galaxy Note II. I wouldn’t say it was big; it was more like carrying around a small LCD TV in your pocket. At first I was a bit overwhelmed by it’s sheer size (ooer!)
Ha ha ha ha, ahem.
Every time I took my phone out of my pocket friends would say “fucking hell Dan, that’s massive”, to which I’d usually reply with some sordid double entendre. But ultimately I think people were taken aback by the impracticality of such a beast of a phone…..that is until they ‘had a go’.
Pretty much every one of my friends has fallen in love with it. It’s an impressive piece of kit and I bloody love it. I’ve got almost all the apps I had on the iPhone and the ones I couldn’t get hold of were shit anyway. The thing that’s brilliant is the way people pull their iPhones out of their pockets and put it next to mine to see just how small theirs is by comparison. It’s like a pissing contest and they’re definitely getting screen envy!
I feel like I’ve acted on those annoying emails that offer penis enlargement. Everyone said I’m making a big mistake and I shouldn’t do it but I did it anyway. Now it’s bigger and more impressive than those of my friends and they’re gutted they didn’t do it as well.
Of course the metaphor ends there…….I’m not letting them ‘have a go’.
A laugh a day helps you work, rest and play
The suited and booted businessman opposite me on the train is clearly watching something funny on his iphone.
Every 30 seconds or so he does his best to suppress his laughter, which he’s failing at miserably.
He’s mostly snorting a lot, but occasionally he pauses what he’s watching, looks out the window and tries to calm down. It really ain’t working for him.
There’s nothing quite like trying to pull a normal face when all your face wants to do is resemble a cat licking piss off a thistle.
I’m not mocking this guy in any way. In fact it’s just a reminder that life should not always be taken so seriously.
Ah, he has totally lost it now, complete with wheezing, snorts and rocking in his seat. Good for him.
The young girl next to him is desperately looking around for somewhere else to sit, but the train is packed. Just sit there and enjoy the moment like I am, you miserable cowbag.
That’s it mate, mop your brow with your handkerchief; you deserve it.
😀
Breakfast At Tiffanys
The new year has come and gone, and for most of us all we have to show for it is a perpetual hangover and a distinct sense of fatigue that simply wont bugger off.
Not me.
Having shared in excess of 12 bottles of proseccco between four of us I should’ve been, by rights, a fucking mess. Instead I woke up as bright as a button and felt great; much to the chagrin of one half of the couple we’d celebrated with.
He was simply struggling to function properly.
In fact he spent a majority of the morning concentrating on difficult tasks like walking, talking and breathing (very gently).
It was on his recommendation that we find somewhere that does breakfasts, or a “dirty fry up”as he called it. Works for me; I was frigging starving!
We were in the middle of Brighton so we knew there would be plenty of places to eat. Although having said that, it was mostly bloody fish and chip shops. Our slowly dying friend pointed out there was a great cafe that he’d eaten at before called Tiffany’s. This was met with a snort of laughter from me as it was either a bad pun or a happy accident.
Please be the latter.
Please be the latter.
It was the former.
Bum.
Oh well, not to worry. We entered and ‘bagsied’ a table like a stereotypical German with a towel before approaching the checkout to place our orders.
“There’s a 25 minute wait for food” we were told. We didnt care, just take our order, bring us buckets of orange juice and tea and we’ll be happy.
It took 35 minutes for our drinks to arrive which meant that we were so dehydrated we resembled a table of tortoise scrotums. It then took a further 20 minutes for our food to get to us. By this time we’d started gnawing the table and licking other customers as they came in.
The food was good though; truth be told. I had sausage, egg, bacon, beans and chips. I did wonder if it still counts as breakfast if it had chips with it, but figured it must do as it was on the breakfast half of the massive chalkboard menu behind the counter.
Whilst we waited forever for our sustenance my brother called me to wish me happy new year.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“Having breakfast in a greasy cafe in Brighton” I replied.
“Good man! What are you having?”
I told him.
He then said the exact same thing about the chips.
Seriously, why do chips turn a breakfast into lunch?
Anyway, we finally left about 2 hours after we’d arrived.
When it said ‘All Day Breakfast’ we didn’t realise that meant the time taken to serve it.
A picture perfect New Year
Happy New Year!!!!
Welcome to 2013.
Today I signed up for the 365project (after much coaxing and persuasion from a friend)
The idea is to upload a photo every day (Shyeah right! Like THAT’LL happen!).
But, if any of you already do it, or you just fancy having a look….please do.
http://365project.org/dansortino/365
And feel free to comment or leave feedback….
Thanks muchly and look out for my next blog entry.
Dan x
Dress for less? I doubt it…
Yesterday I had the joys of going dress shopping with my girlfriend to find something for tonight’s New Year celebrations. To be honest, I didn’t really mind as I needed to buy a shirt for myself, or at least something smarter than a t-shirt and jeans.
Fortunately for us the entire town and surrounded villages had decided to do the same thing. This made the experience all the more exciting and enjoyable. Oh how we adore shopping with hundreds and hundreds of people.
There were a few things I observed whilst swimming through the crowds and punching my way through chavs, children and slow walking couples…
1. The January sales were most definitely on, with posters promising ‘Up To 70% off’, but in reality nothing seemed to be discounted more than 20%. I know that legally these stores have to sell some items at 70% off, but I failed to find them. Maybe I wasn’t looking in the right places, like maternity clothing or guns and ammo.
2. The sales areas seem to take up half the floor space of every clothes shop; festooned with posters and hanging boards offering massive discounts. It’s only to be expected. In fact, this is the reason why you couldn’t slide a credit card between people as they jostle and fight for discounted items you wouldn’t be seen dead in at regular prices. That said, the menswear departments in these stores have a sale area as large as one rail.
Yes…ONE rail.
In H&M the sales posters and livery stopped at the menswear section! How is that fair? To be honest, New Look did have two full rails of sale clothing, but there are only so many peach coloured paisley shirts and green jumpers with leather elbow patches a man can take. And forget looking for a shirt in these stores; it’s all jumpers, jackets and t-shirts. If you want a shirt you have go to somewhere like Burtons and buy a shirt at full price.
Which I did.
3. Finding a dress that my girlfriend liked was an undertaking as she isn’t built like a skinny 12 year old boy. This means that 90% of dresses don’t fit. She is in no way fat or unsightly, but instead is cursed with lovely curves and things called ‘boobs’ (which seems alien to most high street designers). This meant that finding a dress that suited her figure was difficult. Thankfully when she found a dress she liked it was in every size except hers. Oh how we laughed each and every time that happened. In fact, we were pretty much laughing all day long.
On the rare occasion we did find a dress she liked, AND it was the right size, we then ventured to the fitting rooms. This in itself should be an easy affair, but the queues are longer than the Post Office on pension day and the location of these curtained cubicles are questionable.
You see, the fitting rooms are always located right next to the lingerie section of the store. This means that, whilst my girlfriend is trying on her potential purchases, I’m stood amongst the bras and panties looking like some kind of dribbling pervert. There’s nothing more awkward than having a woman say “excuse me” because I’m obscuring the intimate lingerie she’d like to look at, or getting those looks from women who clearly want to peruse the underwear I’m sat next to. I suppose they feel a bit self conscious about looking through the thongs and g-strings that are inches from my face.
Maybe I should’ve started thumbing through the bras, occasionally holding one up against me as if I’m buying them for myself. Then again, I’d rather not be arrested this close to new year.
So instead I do the only thing I can do to disassociate myself from the whole debacle; pretend to be texting.
Which leads me to my next point…
4. It’s interesting to see what blokes do outside the fitting rooms whilst waiting for their other halves to appear wearing something they don’t want to be told their bum looks big in. The activity of choice is play with their phones, be it Angry Birds, texting, surfing the web for Blu-rays or blogging about shopping with the missus. A lot of us share that knowing look of camaraderie whilst stood there holding several shopping bags, a coat, scarf and a handbag; none of which belongs to us. On one occasion I saw a guy sitting there, between the bras and the shoes, reading a Wolverine comic book. Here’s a bloke who knows he’s there for the long haul.
Kudos.
5. Lastly, the in-store music. It seems there is an agreement to play the same CD or radio station throughout every single shop in town. No comedy comment here or smarmy quip. Just stop it.
Stop it now.
So all in all, a long afternoon spent traipsing around hot and stuffy shops full of idiots and pushchairs.
Oh, and she didn’t buy anything; instead deciding to put something together with what she already has at home. And then, upon returning home, remembering she’d bought a dress the week before that would be perfect.
C’est la vie.
I’m sure whatever she wears she’ll look fabulous in it. And if she doesn’t, I’ll be too drunk tonight to care.
Have a great New Year people!!
Something dark is brewing
I’ve worked for my employer now for around 10 months, and in that time I’ve seen, and been responsible for, a lot of change.
In fact, one of my reasons for being here is to change the culture and working practices to be more customer focused.
So imagine my horror this morning when one of the customer service team slowly turned his chair to face me, looked me dead in the eyes and said, with a face of dread, that things are starting to ‘revert back to the dark ages’.
My heart sank.
The ‘dark ages’ is clearly a reference to the old management regime that caused so much grief and misery. A regime that was responsible for tears, blood and the undercurrent of mutiny I felt when I first walked through the door almost a year ago.
But that regime ended months ago! How could we be slipping back? What could have possibly happened? I’ve worked so hard to maintain a level of motivation and joy in the business and I can’t believe it’s starting to fall apart like an over-dunked custard cream. This is disastrous!
I muster the strength and courage to ask the unaskable question; the question I feared the answer to the most in the world at this moment in time. The only question I could ever ask….
“What do you mean?”
The world goes silent. There’s only he and I now. I can hear my own heartbeat and breath, which sounds to me like Darth Vader after a brisk jog.
I wait for his answer; an answer I dread to hear but I know I must hear.
An eternity passes.
He looks me deep in the eyes now, his face contorted with apprehension. This could potentially ruin my upcoming new year celebrations.
He clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak. Here is comes…here comes the moment of truth.
“This may need to come from you rather than anyone else Dan”, he continues, delaying the moment.
Oh no, it’s serious. It’s so serious that I’m going to have to be the one responsible for managing the consequential impact on the entire business.
“What is it Brandon?” I ask, holding back a mix of emotions.
He opens his mouth to speak again. He we go….
…
…
…
“There are coffee granules starting to reappear in the sugar”
Mental mental chicken oriental
The young Japanese couple who have just sat down opposite me on the train are starting to get on my tits, and they’ve only been sat down for 10 minutes.
Firstly, they’re talking to each other in that baby style adopted by overly sugary couples who call each other honey bunny and cuddly bear, which I now realise is annoying in every language.
Secondly, they haven’t broken eye contact at all, not once; not even to blink.
Thirdly, she keeps flicking his ear, poking his cheeks, running her fingers through his ginger hair (yes, ginger), stroking his nose and grabbing his jaw with one hand so she can use her finger and thumb to force the corners of his mouth up to form a smile.
All of this while sharing a pair of headphones.
I’ve now realised the poor guy isn’t really enjoying his half of this relationship.
Interestingly, whilst writing this, she’d grabbed his hand and was rubbing her own hand with it affectionately.
It mildly suggests YOU WILL FUCKING LOVE ME!!
He pulled away for a second to scratch his nose (I guess from all the stroking) and her tone completely changed. It went icy cold and bitter. She’s now sat there, arms folded, with a face like a smacked arse. In fact, he’s having to lean in towards her just so he keeps his end of the headphones.
Oh, hang on…I think things are ok again as she’s pinching his nose and sticking her fingers up there repeatedly. He seems to be REALLY enjoying that! He threw her a smile that, in my opinion, had tones of “get the fuck off me woman” and she snarled at him. Yes, snarled!
Now she’s playing his overturned hand like a piano, making ‘ding dong’ noises for every finger she presses like a key.
We’re now back to the baby talk and sticky out bottom lip…and plucking an unshaved hair from his chin, or is she picking a spot? All I know is she hasn’t left his face alone since they’ve sat down.
Oh, now shes taking his photo, tugging his earlobes, pulling the corners of his eyes like a western child pretending to be oriental before their understanding of racism, pulling his bottom lip down, sticking her fingers in his mouth (go on, bite down hard!), pulling his bottom eyelid down and pinching his cheeks…
Faaaarkin’ hell!
Now I know why samurai warriors would fall on their swords.
Naughty or nice husband?
Someone’s phone rang on the train very loudly just now and it was a terrible, terrible ringtone. The guy looked at it and let it ring and ring for ages before figuring out he should maybe divert it to voicemail, mainly because he was getting the meerkat treatment from the rest of us.
The rubbernecking bloke sat opposite me at the table turned back from meerkatting to face me once again. I stupidly made a nanosecond’s eye contact with him which was apparemtly invite enough for him to try and engage me in mutual tutting and rolling of the eyes that says ‘bloody ringtones eh?’
Sorry, I’m not getting involved. You’re on your own twatboy.
The situation was exacerbated by the woman sat next to me across the aisle whose phone then rang and she proceeded to explain to her partner which train she was on and where exactly in the journey it was.
Cue more invites from King Tut.
She then spent several minutes looking out of every window with such exaggerated intensity it looked like she was on a rollercoaster without proper restraints. I guess this was to somehow demonstrate to her partner that she was really keen to explain where she was, despite the fact he can’t see her and It’s pitch black outside so all she actually saw was her stupid face reflected in the glass, jerking all over the place like a pervert with a live chicken up their arse.
Anyway, she managed to tell him which station we were at.
At least he now knows how long he’s got before he has to kick her sister out of bed.
He he…
Too dark?
Possibly…but consider this; he rang her a further 5 times for a location update whilst I was writing this blog.
Walk on the wild(ish) side?
I’ve just been out for a lunchtime walk into London town. This was for 2 reasons really; firstly to get some fresh air and secondly to peruse the shops for any January Sales bargains….despite the fact it’s still December.
As I trotted along the street I approached a police car sat by the kerb with its engine running. I quickly adopted my ‘I’m not up to anything suspicious so please don’t look at me’ walk.
And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all have one. We usually adopt it when walking through the ‘Nothing To Declare’ customs channel at the airport.
Anyway, as I get closer to the car the bright reflection of the sky on the windscreen subsides and I can see that the car is empty. That’s right, I’m stood next to an empty police car idling by the kerb…with no sign of a police officer anywhere.
With this in mind, can someone please explain to me the sudden and overwhelming urge I had to get in the driver’s seat and drive off?
What the hell?
I’m a pretty law abiding citizen with a modicum of common sense, so I know that the moment I get into this car the owners will come running and most likely arrest me; yet I still found it incredibly hard to just walk by!
Moreover, as I walked away I played this scenario over and over in my head and do you know what I concluded? If it had been a private car I wouldn’t have even considered getting in and driving off.
What is wrong with me?
Head In A Blender 