I’m sitting at my desk whilst two of my colleagues are having a conversation next to me.
Her – “It’s so big”
Him – “You’ll get used to it”
Her new phone had arrived and they were talking about the size of the screen.
But still…
My wife and I were in traffic when we saw these two rival gardening and landscaping trucks side by side.
The one on the left appears to be heavily influenced by religion.
But that’s nothing…
With the one on the right, you get to actually speak to Jesus.
Who you gonna call?
It’s Sunday and I’m at work. It’s actually my scheduled day to work, so this isn’t a ranty post about having to work weekends and the world can lick my sweaty bumhole.
Sorry.
Instead, this is a post about the baffling and idiotic mindset of one of my friends and colleagues who is also here today.
So, for context, we have a large bistro on campus here at work which offers all sorts of foods, drinks and dubious stains and spills on the floor. Usually, when I take my lunch, I head down to the bistro and then text my colleague (let’s call her Numpty) and let her know what free soups they have on offer that day. She then replies and lets me know which she’d like and I take one back to her.
I’m simply awesome like that.
Well, being a Sunday, there was only one choice of soup instead of the usual three. Today’s soup was beef chilli. Yes, I know it’s not technically a soup, but it resembles a soup more than a barrel of squashed frogs.
Actually, squashed frog soup sounds pretty good.
Anyway, when I got down there I sent her a text. In fact, here is the ACTUAL conversation we had (my comments are in yellow).
There’s a lot of love between us
I deserved it.
But then again, so did she. I mean, all she had to do was type ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. In fact a simple ‘Y’ or ‘N’ would have sufficed.
This is why she’s a twat.
Just coasting on the back of my last post; the woman on the exercise bike next to me is having a full blown, animated conversation on her phone. She’s panting heavily which I suppose is… sexy?
Unlike me, she’s pedalling very fast and sweating lots.
Also unlike me – who is able to compose this post whilst pedalling – she’s lacking the appropriate concentration necessary to multitask and has missed the pedals twice, nearly giving herself some complimentary handlebar dentistry.
Heavy breathing? Sexy.
Heavy bleeding? Not as much.
Period.
Gather ’round, gather ’round; I have a tale to tell……..the tale of FuckMonkey.
Now, before I tell this tale I need to get some stuff off my chest. At first it will feel like I am never getting to the story of FuckMonkey, but believe me…I am.
All will become clear.
So, to begin, I would like to talk about the gym, again. The last time I shared observations about the gym I hadn’t been in the country very long so my exposure was as limited as the brain power of…of…well, FuckMonkey actually.
More of that later.
I’ve noticed some behaviours in the gym here in Vegas that just need to be shared. This isn’t including the weirdos who pay a yearly gym subscription just to stretch and do mat exercises on the floor.
Just do that shit at home.
(shrugs)
Anyway, here are 5 baffling and annoying behaviours and practices I’ve seen at the gym, in between gawping at unnecessarily muscular girls’ bums.
1 – Massive Water Bottles.
I don’t really get this one. These things are mini (but not THAT mini) versions of office water coolers.
Compensating for something?
Considering the gym has drinking fountains and bottle filling stations everywhere offering nice cool filtered water, why do you need to bring such a huge bottle and carry it around with you? It’s like having a huge plate at an all-you-can eat buffet. Yes you can put more food on your plate all at once (you greedy fuck), but the food will not be far from the preferred temperature long before you finish the plate.
Mmm, warm water. Refreshing.
At first I thought it was for those crazy people who do cardio for what seems like hours – putting the rest of us to shame – but these bottles don’t fit through most doorways, let alone the cup-holders on the machines.
Maybe it’s because people don’t want to make the long walk to any of the various drink fountains, but surely that’s just counterproductive…like the dickheads from the car park [parking lot].
This need to carry around enough water to drown a small Hippo still amuses me, and I just want to point and laugh…but I don’t; some of these people are BIG!
Me so THIRSTY!
And, speaking of water….
2 – Water Fountain Etiquette
This one is just plain hilarious. To start, here is an actual photo of one of the water fountains in my gym.
You’ll notice they’re at slightly different heights; the reason for which is a mystery. I have seen a dude with dwarfism[1] in there, so is it for him? I don’t know.
Now I think about it, I’ve never actually seen him take a drink from one of these fountains. He carries around a sensibly sized water bottle because a) he’s not an idiot and b) he has a clear grasp of basic physics.
But there’s something about the varying heights of these fountains that has people gravitating to the one on the left. I have lost count the amount of times I’ve walked past 2 or 3 people waiting in line for the fountain on the left and quenched my thirst with the one on the right.
If anything, the act of bending down a little further is an extra workout for your abs.
Also, people have no idea how to drink from them. I once saw a mouth breather sucking on the nozzle like it was his mum’s tit. There’s no way I was getting anywhere near that after him.
Plus, I’ve seen his mum.
(shudder)
Then there are those people who strut to the fountain – overly panting and wheezing (for attention) from lifting heavy things in the air and then putting them down again – only to lean on the fountain with both hands, pausing for effect (and more attention), before drinking.
They can see there are people waiting behind them (at the left fountain, naturally) and yet they stand there all important, entitled and ‘roided up.
Then they take the smallest of sips because the peak of their baseball hat gets in the way.
Speaking of which…
3 – Unnecessary attire
I’m not talking about those string thin muscle tops that are less ‘clothing, and more ‘shoelace’, no…I’m talking about hats and sunglasses.
Indoors.
Unless you’re Jake or Elwood Blues, I will always have issues with you wearing sunglasses indoors…you fucking twat. But I’ve lost track of the number of heavily ‘roided bubble people I’ve seen wearing them in the gym.
“I’m forever made of bubbles….”
Maybe they think it makes them look cool, but they’d be wrong. I think I’ve got them sussed; they do all that shouting, grunting and slamming down of weights only to secretly look around afterwards to see if anyone is watching.
We’re not.
We don’t care.
And when these bizarre bumpy behemoths stand around high fiving each other and talking at a DECIBEL LEVEL LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD FROM SPACE, we simply don’t give a shit.
Shut up, bubble people.
But they’re not the worst offenders of unnecessary attire; not by a long shot. No, the award goes to the mopey teenagers with slouch beanies. These fuckers really grit my shit. You know slouch beanies right? They’re what the smurfs used to wear before they become popular (the beanies, not the Smurfs)
I would normally insert a picture here of a mopey, slouch beanie’d bell-end, but it would fill me with so much rage I might not finish this post.
(breathe…breathe…)
I have lost count the number of fantasies I’ve had of pulling their hat down over their face and garotting them with their headphones. I find it weird that people wear a hat in the gym anyway, but a big, flaccid woolly bag?
This coming from a man who has a cold head
The reason these skinny (and they’re always skinny), slow blinking, perma-texting Biebers are cold is because the only things that get a work out are their thumbs. They just move from machine to machine doing half a lacklustre set – on the lowest weight – followed by sitting on the machine with their face in their phones.
Which leads me to….
4 – Hogging the machine
If you’re sat on a machine and can see someone waiting, either let the person know how many sets you have left, alternate sets with them, or fuck off.
No reading texts. No checking Facebook. Just fuck off.
That is all.
5 – Being on the phone
I understand that you may get a call when you’re at the gym; that’s fair. I also appreciate that sometimes you need to make a call. But some of these fuckers talk on the phone during their entire workout.
There is nothing more annoying that the person next to you talking constantly, and hands-free on their phones at a volume that is not loud enough to be overheard, but loud enough to piss you off. Honestly. what is so important that you simply HAVE to have this conversation right now?
Now, the assumption you’re probably having is that all these social butterflies are talking hands-free; not so. I saw one dude sat on an ab-crunch machine talking into his phone in that walkie-talkie style I despise so much.
Talking like this makes you look like a twat.
Fact.
For clarity, the ab-crunch machine had overhead handles that you pull down as you crunch, raising your knees and grunting like a porn star. It was both angering and hilarious to watch this utter penis struggle to maintain a conversation whilst crunching with one hand on his phone and the other holding one of the handles.
It was awkward and embarrassing, all at once.
So, how does all this relate to FuckMonkey? Well, I’m glad you asked.
A few weeks ago I was in the gym and I was working my back. Of all the pec-fly machines in the gym, only three of them double as a back-fly machine.
For the uninformed, these machines look something little like this:
Note – that is not Superman
On this day, two out of the three machines were out of service.
I had almost completed my routine and only had the back-fly machine left to use, so I walked towards the one working machine and was headed off by this guy who placed his towel on it and then went to grab some water.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with FuckMonkey.
FuckMonkey hit all 5 on the list.
After standing in line behind someone using the left fountain, he came back, looked at me blankly, put down his oversized water bottle, then adjusted the weight he needed and began doing chest exercises. I couldn’t believe it, he could’ve chosen ANY of the other pec-fly machines that didn’t double as a back-fly machine, but no…he had to use this one.
‘Oh well‘, I thought, ‘he shouldn’t be that long‘.
I’ll wait.
He was on the phone (hands-free), mumbling some inaudible shit while he sorted out the height of his seat and began his first set.
I waited.
He finished his set – still mumbling – adjusted his stupid fucking hat and sat there on his phone for what felt like an eternity.
I waited a bit longer.
He pulled himself away from his phone for a moment to pout and flex his puny chest muscles in the mirror before looking up at me blankly and adjusting the weight on the machine.
He started his 2nd set.
I waited some more.
After his 2nd set – still mumbling some bollocks into his phone – he went back to texting and pouting and flexing in the mirror.
Again, he looked at me blankly, then adjusted the weight on the machine and began his 3rd set.
After 15 minutes (yes, FIFTEEN minutes) and numerous sets, I caught the eye of a fellow gym member (let’s call him Larry) who gave me a ‘Sheesh! How long is that guy going to take?‘ look.
I nodded back with my best ‘I know, right?‘ look.
After a minute or so Larry walked over to FuckMonkey and did what any Brit would never do; he asked Fuckmonkey how long is is going to be.
“Are you going to be long? That guy behind you is waiting for the machine“.
FuckMonkey muttered something and Larry looked at me, shrugged and went back to his workout.
Now, usually I wouldn’t wait around, but this was the LAST machine in my routine for the day, and the completionist in me just wanted to get it done.
I waited another 10 minutes and FuckMonkey carried on pouting, flexing, mumbling and doing sets…all the time knowing I was stood there shifting from foot to foot and huffing loudly.
Us Brits might not have the balls to confront a stranger, but we sure know how to huff.
At one point, another gym goer asked me if I was using the machine I was leaning against. I replied with “No, I’m waiting for that machine, right there” and pointed full on and passive aggressively at the one FuckMonkey was on.
FuckMonkey saw me. FuckMonkey didn’t change his routine.
After a full 25 minutes had passed, enough was enough. I walked over to FuckMonkey and interrupted his current pouting session.
“Excuse me…” (I’m English after all, I don’t want to appear rude), “…how much longer are you going to be?“.
He mumbled something like “M gon’ do, li’, a som’ mo’ set’, li’, 20 o’ wha’ev”
I looked at him for a moment, resisting the urge to garotte his weedy little neck, and said sarcastically (and a little aggressively), “So, what are you saying, 20 more minutes?“.
He nodded and said “Yeah“.
And that’s how he got his name.
1 This is nothing derogatory about his size, or some cheap shot. I don’t mock or berate people based on their appearance, but rather their level of sheer Dumbfuckery. If you’re stupid enough for me to write about you, you’re fair game. Plus, two of my friends have a beautiful baby boy with dwarfism. (Shout out to J and M!)
The girl who sits behind me at work is gay. Is that a relevant or appropriate start to this post? You betcha. Let’s call her Cholula.
So, a few of us were talking about pets, particularly dogs and cats, and Cholula said she wanted a dog. However, she didn’t want anything too vicious as she has a cat.
At this moment her phone rang. As she went to pick up the phone she said, “I don’t want anything eating my cat”.
I quickly replied with, “That’s not what she used to say in her single days.”
She laughed, gagged, fucked up her phone greeting and had to apologise to the caller.
I’m currently sat in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic whilst my wife undergoes another session following her double ACL knee surgery a few weeks back.
Whew, that was a long sentence.
Anyway, I’m sat here reading crap on my phone (as usual) when I felt the prescence of someone sit down three seats to my left.
A miniscule fraction of a nanosecond passed before I heard a southern American drawl aimed in my general direction.
“That’s a lot of tattoos”
I chose to pretend I hadn’t heard her and kept reading whatever bollocks I was reading on my phone, knowing full well she was talking to me.
How do I know? Well, because:
A) I have two full tattoo sleeves, and
B) I’m the only other person here.
I could feel her looking at me awaiting some sort of response, like a gormless child waiting for a firework display to begin; slack jawed and unblinking.
The act of ignoring someone does not come as easy to me as many would think, so I succumbed to literal peer pressure and looked up at her old, heavily tanned, heavily cheekboned (due to one surgical procedure too many) face.
I gave her a fake smile.
“A lot of tattoos huh?” she pointlessly asked, in case I hadn’t caught the gist of her last unwelcomed comment.
For a second I toyed with the cliché response of “Oh shit, where the fuck did THEY come from??”, but instead I lifted one arm, admired it for a moment and chuckled a friendly(ish) reply:
“Yeah. And a lot of pain too.”
That should be enough to end this unwanted conversation, I thought.
Wrong.
“Wow, gee whizz”, she continued with me now back to my phone, attempting to re-ignore her.
She then paused for a few seconds to, I assume, scan all my artwork.
Then she let out an audible shudder.
Have you ever heard someone audibly shudder?
What kind of reaction is that?
It’s impossible to describe the sound with the written word, but it was like she had spiders suddenly running up and down her sinewy but saggy, slightly hunched, leathery body.
Silent shudder.
My wife is currently attending her second physical therapy session, having torn the ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament) in both knees a couple of months ago.
Yes, BOTH knees. At the same time.
It’s been a fun few weeks.
Anyway, I decided to take a photo of her during today’s session – as you do – and after having taken a seat, a member of staff quickly approached me.
I knew what he was going to say.
He wanted to advise me that, for legal reasons, I had to ensure no other patients were present in the photo.
I knew it…but I was so annoyed that I was being ‘educated’ that I looked him square in the eyes and put on my best ‘in disbelief’ face.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
He wasn’t.
I had to show him the photo.
Seriously.
What does ‘ the legal system’ think I’m going to do with the photo?
Maybe I’ll post it online and then tag these people randomly in the hope I somehow correctly select them from the 1.65 billion users currently on Facebook?
Maybe ‘the legal system’ is worried I might want to keep it for the wank bank?
Yeah right. These people should be so lucky. These people would be able to stop the vinegar strokes. They would kill any degree of rigidity.
(looks down)
*slap* *jiggle* *slap*
Nothing.
Jesus, it’s just a photo; it’s not like I’m aiming at them through a high powered rifle laser scope.
But joking aside, I know what the problem is; the physical therapy centre doesn’t want to be sued for unauthorised use of photography of their patients without their expressed permission.
Either that, or the member of staff wanted to check the sweet photo I took of my wife.
I can’t blame him.
(adds it to the wank bank)
Maybe I’ll counter sue these delicate background babies for photo bombing my photo. Had they considered that, huh? Had they??
I didn’t give THEM permission to be in MY photo.
But seriously, what next? Should I expect to be contacted by distraught family members of people featured in the backgrounds of photos from my childhood? There are literally hundreds of those lurking in photo albums at my Mother’s house.
There was a LOT of skin in the background of those beach photos.
And a LOT of Speedos.
Tight, miniscule Speedos
*slap* *jiggle* *sl…
Wait, where’d he go?
I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day. The one that usurps all others.
It was great.
But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.
A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery. This visit was one of those times.
Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal. As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone. He was on the phone.
I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person. I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.
The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.
“I know”
“Yes, I heard you”
“Well, you hurt my feelings”
“Yes”
“Yes I know”
“OK”
There was a pause.
“I love you”
His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.
Nice.
I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.
Why?
Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.
He didn’t.
I wouldn’t have either.
So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.
Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged. I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).
After a few minutes he emerged. Thankfully I didn’t know him.
It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.
This could be my last post.
I’ve noticed that a lot of my posts recently have been highlighting all the frustrations and annoyances of living in America. It’s been very anti-USA and that’s not entirely fair
I do actually enjoy living here….there is so much about America that is awesome and I will share events when they arise. However, if I wrote about all the things I like about my new life, my posts would be less ranty and more unicorny and rainbowy.
So in keeping with the negative trend, I want to share something that really annoys me when speaking to an American customer over the phone.
Firstly, let me give you some context…
Let’s say a woman is calling our company to order a new jacket for her son. She bought a jacket with us last year and wants the same one again but in a larger size.
Got it?
Good.
Now, in England, the conversation would go something like this…
Customer – “Hello, I’d like to ask you about a jacket for my son”.
Me – “Uh huh, OK”. (verbally nodding to demonstrate I’m listening)
Customer – “Now, I ordered this jacket from you last year…”
Me – “Mm Hmm”
Customer – “…but it’s too small for him now, so I wanted to check if you had the same one but in a larger size”.
Me – “Sure, no problem. Let’s bring up your details so I can find the jacket from last year. Do you have your account number?”
Customer – “Yes, my account number is 123…”
Me – “…123…”
Customer – “…456…”
Me – “…456…”
Customer – “…789…”
Me – “…789, thanks. So your account number is 123456789?”
Customer – “Yes”
(Brings up account details)
Right, now here’s the same conversation with an American customer…
Customer – “Hello, I’d like to ask you about a jacket for my son”.
Me – “Uh huh, OK”. (still verbally nodding)
– Silence –
Me – “Hello?”
Customer – “No it’s OK; you go ahead”.
Me – “What? No, it’s OK. I was just listening; you go ahead”.
Customer – “OK, so I ordered this jacket from you last year…”
Me – “Mm Hmm”
Customer – “Sorry, go ahead”.
Me – “No no, please continue”.
Customer – “OK, so I ordered this jacket from you last year but it’s too small for him now, so I wanted to check if you had the same one as before in a larger size”.
Me – “Sure, no problem. Let’s bring up your details so I can find the jacket from last year. Do you have your account number?”
Customer – “Yes”
– Silence –
Me – (rolls eyes) “So what’s your account number?”
Customer – “123…”
Me – “…123…”
– Silence –
Me – “Hello?”
Customer – “Yes, I’m here, go ahead”.
Me – “So you said it’s 123..”.
Customer – “…123…”
Me – “123123?”
Customer – “…456…”
Me – (getting annoyed now) “…yep…”
– Silence –
Me – “Go ahead”.
Customer – “No it’s OK, you go ahead”
Me – (through gritted teeth) “I need the rest of your account number, please continue”
Customer – “…789…”
Me – “…789, thanks. So your account number is 123123456789?”
Customer – “Yes”
(No account details…unsurprisingly)
Farkin’ ‘ell!
Now, let me be clear, this isn’t the case with conversations face to face, this only happens over the phone. If you so much as fart it spooks them like a deer in the headlights of common sense.
During a face to face conversation I don’t have people stopping mid sentence…unless I flop my cock out.
I’ve written a lot of entries that have been toilet related. In fact, if you type the word ‘toilet’ in my search bar you will get an almost endless list of posts.
I clearly need to get a lot of things out.
(smirks smugly to himself)
Today’s log (smirk) is no different, and yet it is; it’s about certain observations and forms of etiquette I’ve noticed when using a toilet cubicle [stall].
Firstly there’s the ‘call to attention’. This is a customary noise you make to alert any new toilet visitor that you’re already there, sat down, mid performance.
This customary noise usually comes in the form of a cough, a clearing of the throat, a loud sniff or the dropping of a big, heavy turd.
Often, when I’m the new arrival to the toilets this ‘call to attention’ comes in the form of general grunting and groaning, like the cubicle occupant is attempting to shit out a small donkey. Even after I’ve dropped my dignity and taken a seat, the grunting and groaning continues.
Is their turd coming out sideways?
Imagine your grandfather sitting in a big comfy chair after a huge meal; that’s the sound I can best liken it to.
So anyway, regardless of who came in first or last, the next thing I’d like to comment on is the deafening silence that follows when the coughing, grunting and sniffing has subsided.
I mean, you can literally hear a pin drop, let alone anything else.
This is a level of silence that actually hurts your ears. It’s quieter than being in church, or so I’ve been told; I don’t tend to hear it over the sound of my burning flesh and the screams of a thousand tortured souls.
Or is that just me?
This silence is counterproductive to the task in hand when all you want to do is push out some bum rope, especially as it’s likely you’re in the most echo efficient room in the building.
It’s almost a battle of wills to see who will set free the first fart, or something decidedly more sinister.
This is exacerbated if you have a bad stomach and want to let loose the fizzy beast within.
Personally, I reach around (easy now) and flush the toilet in time with each contraction; evacuating my bowels in perfect time with the masking sounds of the flush.
And while I’m on the subject of masking sounds, it’s a huge frustration of mine when people don’t use the hand dryer KNOWING their fellow man is attempting to curl one out – with sweaty brow and trembling knees – a few feet away. Instead they opt for a paper towel or trouser wipe.
Give me some cover noise mate, come on.
I’d do it for you.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I had an epiphany the other day whilst sat on the loo. I was sitting there, spending a little too long on Facebook and creating those infamous red thigh marks…
…when I heard the guy in the neighbouring cubicle stop grunting and groaning and reach for the toilet paper.
In the library-like silence I could heard the rumble of the roll as he pulled at the paper, followed by the soft but definable snap of the paper.
It then occurred to me that the rustling that followed wasn’t him practicing Origami, it was the actual act of wiping his arse. I could literally hear him smearing poo from his balloon knot. And what made it worse was that he kept going, returning to the loo roll two or three times for back up.
Now I think about it, the word ‘wipe’ should be replaced with ‘vigorously scrub’.
Now, whenever I hear the rumble of the toilet roll, I know I’m about to hear a guy cleaning out his chocolate tea-towel holder with wads of tissue paper a foot and a half away from me.
I want to hum or sing to drown out the noise, but I feel that would just make the hole[1] situation worse.
Once you’ve had this epiphany and heard that noise, you can’t un-hear it.
You’re welcome.
But all of this pales into comparison to my last observation and experience.
This one has resulted in three words of advice. Three simple words that will ensure you are not mentally scarred for the rest of your days.
When you’re next sat on the toilet, pay close attention to the floor.
Is it shiny?
Has it been buffed to a mirror-like perfection?
If the answer is yes, and someone joins the cubicle next to you, remember these three little words.
Don’t look down.
[1] Not a typo
I’ve just checked my phone.
I expected notifications. I did not expect THESE!
This is the second time this has happened to me.
I laughed just as hard that time too.
Here’s a shining example of a perverse incentive if ever there was one.
When my phone’s battery is dying, my phone decides to alert me by leaping into life and bleeping loudly whilst lighting up the big LED screen with a warning that my battery is low.
Yeah, that helps.
This warning then keeps the screen brightly lit until I acknowledge it by pressing the ‘OK’ button. Even then, it doesn’t switch to standby until I do it myself.
It’s like shouting “You’re being very quiet and stealthy!” to a ninja, mid-creep.
He knows. And now he isn’t.
Oh look, my battery has drained drastically in the last 2 minutes for some reason.
Oh look, the ninja has been stabbed through the face by the palace guards.
We’ve all called someone only to get their annoying voicemail recording.
A few of us will leave a message, but a majority will just text them instead. But if we don’t intend to leave a message, why do we wait until we’ve heard the entire voicemail recording before hanging up?
What are we expecting to hear at the end? The winning lottery numbers? A sonnet?
Being English, it’s entirely possible we don’t want to offend the recording by cutting it off mid-sentence so we wait until the very end before we hang up; just in case.
We don’t want to appear rude after all.
Please leave your comments after the beep.
..
..
Beep.
Over the years I’ve noticed a few habits adopted by the idiots I’m forced to endure every day on the trains (or ‘commuters’ as they’re better known). A lot of these habits have become such commonplace that I usually can’t be bothered to blog about them, or I simply forget.
However, this morning there were three happening all at once and my Punch-O-Meter’s needle was twitching in the red zone.
See?
Dangerously close.
So I’m taking time out to vent about these habits that leave me craving the sweet sound of knuckles on face.
1. The Multitasker
This is the person who, whilst having a conversation with someone else on the train, is also reading their phone or tablet. Even though they’re (thankfully) not talking to me, it’s still really rude and they don’t make any attempt to hide it.
It’s bad enough that they’re flapping their jaws while I’m trying to sleep or watch a movie, but to be doing it and not remaining committed to the conversation they’re having is like getting a drum kit for your birthday and then playing it out of rhythm, like Yugoslavian Jazz.
If you’re going to annoy me at least have the decency to do it properly.
2. Casual Viewers
I’m a bit of a viewing Nazi when it comes to TV and movies. If you’ve made a decision to sit down and watch something, then sit the fuck down and watch it. There are certain things you should never do, especially when I’m in the vicinity.
These include:
The woman sat next to me on the train this morning was watching some boring shit on her tablet, but was also moronically scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed on her phone. I use the word ‘watching’ loosely as she didn’t actually look up from her phone for almost the entire journey into London, which was an hour.
I thought about all the money spent hiring writers, producers, directors (first and second unit), actors, extras and production staff, plus all the time taken perfecting every line of every draft of the script to keep the plot engaging, every camera angle to capture the subtle nuances of the actors’ performances, the scouting for locations, the permissions needed to shoot in these locations, the time spent in principle photography, all the post production, the special effects, music, overdubs, Foley dubs, the editing process to keep the right pace, the test audiences to ensure it will satisfy the masses and bring in the bucks, the premieres, the red carpets, the press junkets; all of this wasted on some bint ‘liking’ a picture of a kitten.
It really grinds on me. Can you tell?
Then, when she’d stopped mindlessly scrolling through the pointless crap on her newsfeed and sucked in her drool, she then spent ages rewinding what she had been ‘watching’ in an attempt to find the part where she’d tuned out. To be honest, I don’t think this woman was ever fully tuned in.
And finally,
3. The Aisle Sitter
This one has always confused me.
It’s the idiot who gets on the train, sits in an aisle seat and leaves the window seat vacant.
Why?
Inevitably someone else will get on and want to sit down, so rather than simply (and sensibly) moving over to the window, they make a big performance of stopping what they’re doing (sometimes tutting and sighing in the process) and awkwardly standing up in the aisle (stopping other people from getting past) to allow the new arrival access to the seat by the window.
This is time consuming and makes absolutely no sense. It’s a commuter train which means this happens EVERY day, and EVERY day they do the same thing. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Same dickheads, same thing; every day.
If they don’t want to be disturbed, then sit by the window, or find a seat next to someone who already has.
These are supposed to be intelligent people, right? I mean, they’re wearing suits and stuff.
I’m reminded of a quote from Tim Minchin:
“We’re just fucking monkeys in shoes”
This morning I was looking forward to watching something on my phone. As a result I carefully selected a seat on the train that was perfectly shielded from the remarkably low, and spectacularly bright, bastard sun.
As the train departed I smugly looked around at everyone else who hadn’t prepared themselves.
Whereas I was feeling great.
However, at the next stop, some bint wielding an iPad sat across the aisle and successfully bounced a laser beam of sunlight right in my eyes like an ant under a microscope.
On the upside, I got a bit of a tan.
On this nice quiet train carriage, a plum voiced prick starts talking unnecessarily loudly into his phone for all of us to hear.
“Oh, Chris, hi” “Yah” “Yah, M-hah hah hah” (known as the ‘posh twat’ laugh)
“No, I’m just on my way up from Gatwick now, yah”
“Uh huh, yah, I flew in, had the meeting, then went to Dubai, spent one night there and flew home; you know, the standard. M-hah hah hah”.
We all think he’s a complete cock.
You know, the standard.
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Uh huh”
“Yeah”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
(Long pause)
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Well yeah”
(Pause)
“Yup”
“Uh huh”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah of course”
“Yeah”
“Yup”
“Yeah, OK bye”
…was the half of the telephone conversation we all had to endure from some guy on the train.
It was as annoying as a dripping tap.
I’m sure he’ll agree.
I’ve just heard a man on his phone refer to some business plan as “… the last arrow in the box”.
It’s ‘quiver’.
You twat.
My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place. Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.
Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.
Needless to say, she needed a bank account.
So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life. This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.
We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.
I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.
This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification. Thanks for telling us. I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway. Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.
It’s online for a reason people.
I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.
But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other. This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.
We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum. Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.
So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine. I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.
“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.
‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’
I’m sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? £3.10?? I don’t need two hours! And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?
I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine. Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price. They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car. Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?
Wankers.
Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.
No fucking way.
I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.
Off she went.
I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office. There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.
It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.
Of course.
I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.
I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.
We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.
Of course.
So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim. This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.
Not this Sunday though. This Sunday they were shut. No reason; they just were.
Of course.
We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.
Fuck it, I was going to wait outside. All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.
She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street. Oh come on!
I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.
After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head. It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before. Apparently she needed to produce her passport.
I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.
Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off. We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later. In she went again. I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.
This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder. It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK. Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!
What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.
I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.
Well, I suppose everything comes in threes. The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon. Surely that’s the end of it?
Nope.
We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.
The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.
At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I. Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.
After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train. Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.
We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.
Head In A Blender 