On the drive into work this morning I was behind this plumbing truck.
I couldn’t resist sharing these brilliant slogans.
This sign has been up in the toilets at work for a while now.
I’ve mocked it enough. It’s time this was sorted out.
(I couldn’t resist).
At work, someone has put up these notices in all the toilets in the entire building.
Note the use of an ‘@’ symbol instead of the word ‘At’, as if to save space or something. I hate that, especially when the word ‘At’ was actually used a bit further down.
And what if I leave my toilet in an awful state at home? Does that give me permission to do the same at work?
Ultimately, I want to do the right thing, so I’m going to take heed of the advice offered and (being the literal and pedantic bastard I am) do exactly what it says.
I’m going to enjoy flushing the toilet non stop and shitting in the bin.
Last month, whilst in Vegas visiting the in-laws, my wife and I stopped for gas (or ‘petrol’ as it’s known in the civilised world). The way they ‘pump gas’ in America is in complete contrast to how we do it in the UK.
Here we drive up to the pump, get out of the car, open the petrol cap and start filling. When we’re finished we head into the shop and pay for it. In America they drive up to the pump (from any entrance I might add; none of this ‘way in’ and ‘way out’ bollocks), go into the shop, pay in advance for fuel (and snacks and beverages) and then head back to their vehicle and fill up.
The American approach comes with two pros and a con.
Pro number 1 – If you decide you want to spend $30 on gas (petrol), you pay the clerk in the shop and your pump is credited with exactly $30. There’s no chance of putting in more than you can afford. And on top of this, you can clip the trigger in position and leave it pumping fuel knowing you will never put in more than you want to spend.
Why aren’t we doing this?
It saves on hand strain and gives you more time to do other things, like eating.
If you then discover that your tank only needed, say, $25 worth of gas (petrol) you go back inside and the clerk behind the counter gives you back the difference.
Pro number 2 – There’s no chance of people filling up and then not having the means to pay, or filling up and fucking off.
It’s a bit like prostitution but with pumps instead of pimps.
Con – You don’t get to play the ‘Petrol Pump Game’.
Allow me to elaborate. Let’s say you want to put £30 of fuel in your vehicle’s tank. You start filling up until the price gets to somewhere around £29.85 at which point you ease off the trigger, slowing down the pumping speed.
Then you start to adopt the technique of squeezing the trigger gently at little intervals to hit the price exactly at £30.
Very gentle squeeze.
Very gentle squeeze.
VERY gentle squeeze.
A squeeze so gentle it wouldn’t pop a soapy bubble even if your fingers were covered in coarse sand.
You then decide to go to £31.
Very gentle squeeze.
VERY gentle squeeze.
A squeeze so gentle it can’t be measured at a microscopic level.
This continues until you either:
It’s not a great game and can be quite costly, but there’s no feeling like hitting the price dead on, first time. I’ve been known to let out the occasional air grab, sometimes accompanied by an “Aww Yeah!”
Anyway, whilst at the gas (petrol) station in Vegas I decided to get a drink because it was a very hot day, or as the locals call it; “a day”. I was expecting to see a few fridges full of various beverages, the brands of which I’d never heard of, but nothing could prepare me for the sheer choice of refreshments available to me.
As well as the aforementioned fridges full to the brim with beer, wine, sodas (soft drinks) and so on, there were also aisles (plural!) of crisps (chips), nuts, beef jerky, slim jims (Peperami), candy (sweets and chocolate), cakes, sandwiches, cereals and other brightly coloured bags of chemicals and deliciousness too numerous to mention.
Most of these on a ridiculously huge scale!
And it didn’t stop there. There was a hot counter that had burgers, hot dogs, burritos, nachos, pies and pasties (the UK word for a type of pie and not the US word for a small plastic nipple hat)
In addition there was a coffee station that had more options than a Starbucks, a milkshake station that not only allowed you to choose your flavour(s) but also how thick you wanted it, a massive slushy machine with various flavours and the most amazing machine I’d ever seen; a touch screen soda dispenser with an overload of choices.
Oh, and everything was self-serve.
So let me tell you about this epic soda machine.
Firstly you’re presented with a screen with 24 choices of beverage.
This is a significantly larger choice of drinks than any dispenser I’ve ever seen in the UK, which usually consist of Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite and Fanta.
It’s an impressive choice but I wasn’t surprised at all because it’s what I expected from an American soda machine. I selected Caffeine Free Diet Coke and prepared to fill up my oversized 64oz (approx 2 litre) plastic cup.
But no, there was another layer of choices awaiting me.
Yes, that’s right. I could have…
…versions of Caffeine Free Diet Coke.
What the hell?? That’s AWESOME!
This got me thinking, is it the same for other drinks?
Orange Fanta Zero comes with the option of:
Lemonade comes with the option of:
Even Ginger Ale gets a flavour makeover:
My wife wanted Dr.Pepper and she had the choices of Cherry Dr.Pepper or Cherry Vanilla Dr.Pepper in addition to the (now somewhat boring) regular Dr.Pepper.
I’d never seen anything like it.
“Peek-a-boo! I see poo!”
My wife and I were in a mall in Vegas shortly after breakfast and, as we meandered around the shops I didn’t recognise, I suddenly felt the playdough effect kicking in.
Basically, a turd was imminent.
So I hobbled to the ‘Restroom’ to do anything but rest. I walked in and there were two empty cubicles (or ‘stalls’) along with three urinals, all of which were occupied.
No problem, this was going to be a sit down performance anyway.
I went into the first cubicle, locked the door (although it made no difference to my privacy with the gaps around the door) and dropped my shorts for the big performance.
I just had to make sure I didn’t make too much noise as it was very quiet in there.
I started clenching and relaxing at the same time.
Got to be quiet.
Got to be quiet.
There was a pause and all that could be heard were three streams of piss on porcelain.
Got. To. Be. Quiet.
Ha, no chance. My arse decided to sound like the final squeeze of a ketchup bottle.
I waited 5 minutes after I was finished before leaving the cubicle.
Hangovers. They’re fun aren’t they?
Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before. Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really? Awesome’.
In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.
My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point. I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…
…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before. The PAP. Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.
Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb. This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”. I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to. Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……
In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.
And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate! What crawled up your arse and died??”.
I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.